


Mighty and Dreadful

by americanjedi



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Deep Cuts, Fix-It of Sorts, Found Family, Gen, Girls With Swords, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Life Partners, Prophecy, Sinister Magics, The Witcher Lore, This is very AU, Timeline Shenanigans, Witcher Contracts, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), and from monster fighting, both in the canon, let's hear it for the B team, mix of sources, no beta we die like men, reverse witcher, self-indulgence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-02-22 21:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23100913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/americanjedi/pseuds/americanjedi
Summary: The School of the Raven had one task, to prevent the end of the world.  The witcher school now stands empty but for the dead, and five young witchers must survive long enough to hold the line against an eclipse, the spilling of elvin blood, the next conjunction of the spheres, and finding the next contract in a world that never seemed to want witchers in the first place.  Tissaia's just trying to stay calm, Triss is only here for the plants, Zola punched a hole in a werewolf, and Jaskier and Filavandrel are dealing with a bond they don't fully understand.The indulgent Reverse Witcher AU that no one asked for and I can't stop thinking about.  If we're going to go AU, let's go AU!
Relationships: Clip & Clop, Filavandrel aén Fidhál & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 23
Kudos: 24





	1. The Tower Where They Named Me

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go again! Everyone was so kind before I thought I'd try another one. The School of the Raven is made up for the purposes of this story because I like ravens, and also because none of the other witcher schools fit what I wanted. Because it's me the whole story is just packed with lore from the games, series, and books all mixed together, so I figured I deserved to go a bit creative with the

The wind hit the curl of the great stone fortress Praenuntius at a tackle, knocking its way against the towers of the School of the Raven. Witchers who hadn’t settled in yet or who were neither teaching nor on the Path were expected to stand at the watchtower. Tissaia tucked her face down into the thick fur of her hood and tried to focus her senses. The thick fog around the school protected it as much as it hid anyone approaching, but didn’t hide any scents. It was just a matter of catching them in the harsh air. She startled as Stribog came screeching out of the fog from where she’d sent him out on patrol. She lifted her arm to catch him. He shrilled at her, trembling with strain. Someone was coming and they weren’t a witcher. She wished – and not for the first time – that her raven could talk.

She darted across to the other side of the watchtower waving to Vea whose long braids were blowing like white ribbons in the wind. The lean witcher waved back, her raven Ilian launching out with an experienced wing to ride the curl of the wind around the tower before spinning down into the fog. From farther down the tower Tea’s raven Juna launched out swift as an arrow.

Tissaia curled a protective hand around Stribog, holding him close to her body. He shivered his beak clacking, his pearl-white eyes scanning out over the tower edge. From the fog came Ilian and Juna’s shrills. She waited, tense. There was the sound below of the front door opening. Tissaia let out two sharp whistles to be heard over the rush of air. On the second tower, Vea stood with her arm curled out to catch at Ilian’s experienced drift up through the wind and down into her arms. Breathless, Tissaia watched, then all at once, the suspense was broken. Vea, waved for her to sound the alarm. She lifted the trap door in the floor of the tower and dropped down, skipping the ladder, to pull the rope just as Grand Master Borch appeared dashing up the stairs. He had an expression on his face she had never seen before. He stood on the top stair for a moment before he gestured for her to follow him. Jackdaw clacked at her once from the Grand Master’s shoulder, but it was a tense sort of cut off sound. 

“Sir?” she asked before she realized she was holding Stribog to her chest like she was still an acolyte and nudged him to take his place on her shoulder. She was fifteen, it was time she acted like it, in front of the Grand Master no less.

Borch smiled his kind gentle smile and motioned her along. “Come with me, Tissaia.”

They jogged down the halls because no one walked the halls of Praenuntius unless they were a baby or dying. Up ahead she heard one of the potion mistresses arguing with someone whose voice she didn’t recognize at all. There were very few men within the walls of the School of the Raven.

The potion mistress looked close to feral, her eyes dark and burning, her pale hair was bundled up on top of her head. “His body hasn’t been prepared, even without considering the fact he’s a boy or that he’s _almost dead._ If you’re that determined to bury your son just wait. You didn’t have to come here and drag an army with you!”

The other person looked like an elf, one she didn’t recognize, holding a bundled-up figure in his arms. He wore finer clothes then belonged in the Blue Mountains, marred with blood that looked half from himself and half from the person he held. “I know that your school uses forbidden magics. You would have the debt of me and of my people.”

“If we do this, and if he survives,” Grand Master Borch said. “He will never be able to father a child. Your line will end with him.”

The elf looked at Grand Master Borch, his expression broken down the middle. “Save my son. Please, old friend. You have to save him.”

The bells of Praenuntius began to ring out an alarm and raven calls suddenly sounded out of the halls of the school. Tissaia’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. She looked at Grand Master Borch. He looked calm, or perhaps just tired. It was just at the end of wintering in, the school was flush with witchers. Everything would be alright.

“We are going to have to improvise and be a little indirect,” Grand Master Borch told the potion mistress. “Tell Chireadan to prepare accordingly and have him pick one of the newer witchers he’s training, we can’t spare anyone at the gate.” 

Tissaia didn’t understand what was happening. 

Hand on the elf’s shoulder, Grand Master Borch led them to one of the raven roosts. They weren’t in there for very long before a giant raven landed heavy on the elf boy’s chest, making him cough and sputter up blood. “Cwa,” it said, dark and sarcastic and then sip at the red splatter around the boy’s side. 

The elf looked on in horror, but Grand Master Borch just kept smiling. “Excellent. And off we go to the transformation chamber.”

The chamber was deep in the fortress, the only entrances into the cave underneath the Praenuntius and a long solemn hallway leading into it from the potion wing.

Before they went in, Grand Master Borch took the boy from the elf’s arms. “You can’t go any farther, I suggest you escape while you can or find a sword and join the fight.”

The elf pressed a kiss to his son’s forehead and ran off. Tissaia wasn’t paying him much attention, Stribog kept making concerned sounds in her ear.

Inside the transformation chamber Chireadan – the only other male witcher at the School of the Raven – was setting up his bottles and potions. He looked upset. Zola and Triss were there helping him set up with tubes and washing down the table.

“Grand Master Borch,” he said as he fiddled with the stand. “I feel as though I should protest. Boys don’t take the change as well and that boy hasn’t had anything to fatten him up, he hasn’t been trained. The transformation will tear him apart. You know what happens to acolytes who go through the change without being ready for it.”

“This is Filavandrel aén Fidháil of the House of Feleaorn,” Grand Master Borch said with that way he had of tipping his head back and then forward again. “He is the one who will take back Dol Blathanna if we fail from keeping it from falling, and save his people. For all our efforts it seems the time of sword and ax is nigh after all,” Grand Master Borch looked so sad. “We must keep him safe as long as we can.” 

“His body has not been prepared,” Chireadan said again, voice grating like a poorly used whetstone. “He hasn’t even drunk any of the tea. The transformation is going to burn or drown him. He won’t be able to survive the Other, it will overtake him.”

“He is an exceptional child,” the Grand Master said. “Who will become an exceptional man. The survival of the elves rests on his shoulders. The weight of prophecy will have to be enough to help him survive. Our sacred charter is to save the world, have some hope Chireadan. Believe in a miracle.”

There was a sort of panic that blooming in Tissaia at his words, Stribog’s body pressed against the side of her head. They were all taught the prophecies from a young age. She’d been trained in waiting for the signs of frozen harbors, black suns, storks in Cintra, and the spilling of the blood of the elves. How the band that had founded the School of the Raven had prevented a new Conjunction of the Spheres only a few hundred years ago.

“I drank the tea,” a small lilting voice said from behind them.

Tissaia turned to look at a little acolyte, a boy, his arms full of clean sheets. His eyes were bright blue, and his brown hair as fine as dandelion fluff, his expression was so sweet and soft. Next to her she could feel the weight of the Grand Master’s stare.

“His papa loves him,” the little boy said, setting down the sheets on the transformation table to take up the elf child’s hand in his. “And he’s going to do good things. I want to help. I paid attention to Alta. I heard her say how you change us. The tea never made me sick like it did Dura or Mellie. I can help him get better and be with his papa again.”

Grand Master turned to Zola. “How has Julien been progressing, no trouble with the tea?” 

“Like- like a fish to water,” Zola said, uncertain. She looked to Tissaia, but Tissaia didn’t know what to say.

Grand Master Borch held out his hand to the boy smiling with that soft kind smile, his eyes were so sad. “You’re a brave boy. That might be enough.”

Chireadan looked to her as he was preparing the bottles, pausing to do two sets instead of one. “You have near-perfect signs, don’t you? You caught lightning with Quen on your first try.”

“Yes sir,” she answered.

“Come stand near the boy. It will take too much to guide our elf friend here through the change, I need you to maintain Julian.”

“He prefers Jaskier,” Zola said from where she was helping Triss, her knuckles white around the bottles she was holding. “It’s what his mother called him.”

“I can’t,” Tissaia said. “I can’t do this.”

Grand Master Borch touched her shoulder and then cupped her face with his hands. “Look at me. Look at me.”

She blinked up at him. His eyes were such a perfect gold. 

“Tissaia. You can do it and you will.” He made a sign against the side of her head, though she wasn’t sure which one it was, she felt a sudden assurance wrap around her. A total faith. 

She nodded at him. 

He pressed a hand to her shoulder, and then did the same for Zola, and Jaskier, and even Chireadan who wrapped his arms around Grand Master Borch and held on for long moments. “Be safe, old friend.”

“I have a few more tricks in me yet,” Borch told him, holding him tight. “I’m so proud of you Chireadan. I’m so proud. Thank you.”

And then Grand Master Borch was gone, closing the great doors behind him as he went.

The elf woke up then because of course he did. At least Chireadan was an elf, that seemed to calm him a little. “Where am I?”

“You’re at Praenuntius. The School of the Raven,” Chireadan said. “You’re dying and your father’s magic wasn’t enough to save you so you’re going to become a witcher.”

He could have lied a little.

“N-no,” the boy stuttered. “I’m an elf. Of the House of Feleaorn.” He began to cry, a soft almost silver sound. It was ridiculous. No one needed to cry that pretty. “They killed m-my mother. My brother. _Athelinuin,”_ he said and covered his face with both hands. “He was going to teach me to play the lute and now he’s dead. Let me die. Please. I just want to be with family again. Let me die.”

Jaskier slid off the bed to go tuck the elf’s hand into both of his, holding it against his cheek. “You can do it. I know it’s hard. Grief is a river that finds it’s end in peace. Don’t let yourself drown in it,” Jaskier said. Tissaia had heard the same lesson from Alta who seemed to be repeating the philosophy to the new acolytes. “Don’t give up. No one is dead until they’re dead. Zola is really nice and Chireadan is really smart. They’re going to do something to save us and you and I are going to be alright. Please, don’t give up.” For all they were Alta’s words in Jaskier’s mouth, the boy had tuned them true to himself and played them well from his own lips.

A soft little crystal tear squeezed out of the elf’s eye, but he set his small jaw and nodded. 

Zola scooted Jaskier’s cot closer so they could keep holding hands.

There was a cacophony of shrilling and shrieking from inside the fortress.

“Zola,” Chireadan said as he took the elf’s free arm, feeling with his fingertip for a vein. On the other side Triss did the same with Jaskier. “The door if you please.”

The curly-haired witcher barred the door and then centered herself. Her hands moved over the frame scratching in a combination of Yrden, Curn, and Quen before moving to the floor in front of it, layering in defenses.

“Tissaia,” Chireadan snapped at her. 

She nodded back at him, centering herself. Stribog made a low rumbling sound from her shoulder.

“Listen to his heart, concentrate, focus your hearing like you were trained to on the hunt. You will need to use a sign combination of somne and quen to slow him down and maintain a low but constant rate. If his heart goes to fast the Trial will tear him apart, if it is too slow you will stop his heart and he will die.” He looked at her, smiling that same soft sad smile that Grand Master Borch used. “You can do this. Just listen to me, nice and slow. Begin with somne.”

She went into a kind of trance. Sign combinations were difficult, a sleight of hand that was almost magic. When the School of Raven had decided to go without mages, they had to make some adaptations. She could feel the sluggish beating of Jaskier’s heart going slower and slower under her hand, she could feel it reach the same pace as the little elf’s. Chireadan would give commands from time to time for the potions they used. She could feel when the first of it hit Jaskier’s system, the way his body shook with it. Sweat soaked down her forehead, down the back of her armor. The boy was so small, so terribly small even with all the fat packed on with an acolyte’s diet. Triss appeared at her side with a cloth and wiped her face off with swift movements. Her hands were cramping into hooks, her body screamed.

The majority of the School of the Raven were women. Only the witchers that specialized in the potions really knew the process, but there was something about the difference in it – the way the school went without mages – that meant women just took the change better. Jaskier must have been the only male acolyte. She vaguely remembered he was loud and had that too cheerful habit of trying to be helpful. Tissaia didn’t want to kill him. Chireadan made it look so easy. The turning of the Signs to the outer possible application. She didn’t remember anything more of her first transformation. She woke to blood on her sheets, went to go tell her bunk leader, and by the next morning her hair was white and she was a witcher. She hadn’t been awake for any of this, just woke up with a burning body and a world that was too loud.

“Second batch,” Chireadan said. She saw him move out of the corner of her eye and Triss moving to her right. Looking over she watched Triss pin Jaskier’s raven down onto it’s back with a practiced hand. The raven made a bit of an annoyed sound, but seemed too good-natured to fight the position. Then Triss took a branching tube with a sharpened edge in her hand and stabbed it into the raven’s chest. 

Tissaia cried out and dropped Quen as Jaskier’s raven kicked and sprayed blood into the tubing. The raven struggled fiercely on the table – snapping and cawing, its feathers going out of place – but its blood was pouring out of it almost black in the tube and then grew weaker, and weaker, and then it just lay there making low croaks.

Kicking at Tissaia, Triss snapped her head in annoyance as she connected one branch of the tubing to some potion bottle that was connected to Jaskier. “Tissaia! Focus!”

All she could do was stare at Triss and down at the raven on the table. It was still, its eyes blank. Tissaia didn’t know what was happening.

“Tissaia! Focus or he’ll die!”

Turning back to Jaskier with a frantic sort of numbness, she cast Quen again. She felt it take, but weakly. She was losing control like a sled on a field of ice jack-knifing back and forth. She didn’t know. She didn’t know they killed the ravens. Stribog was on the cot staring at the twitching body of Jaskier’s pretty raven. His eyes were white. All the witchers had ravens with white eyes.

Jaskier made a high pained animal sound twitching and writhing so hard he would have thrown himself off the bed if Triss hadn’t been there to throw her body on top of him. What were they doing? What had been done to her?

“Tissaia!” Triss screamed. “He needs you!”

She couldn’t get it to stop, she couldn’t get control back. She hissed out from between her teeth. Her fingers felt like they were being torn to pieces. She was going to do this, she could do this! The first level of protection on the door activated in a swirl of color. How far had the enemy breached to get to the turning room? She felt her Other rise up, tight-laced to the throat and absolutely full of teeth.

“I could have been a mage!” Tissaia howled, she could feel the sort of red mist of going feral circle around her vision. She wanted to bite, she wanted to tear. “I could have been a mage. The greatest who ever lived. I chose what I am. I chose this, I chose to be a wonder and a horror! I am the rage in the night! I am the silver sword and the fist of steel! I am powerful and you will obey me!”

Jaskier dropped down so still she thought she had killed him, but no there was the soft murmur of his heart in her hands. She felt something wet on her mouth and droplets of blood landed on Jaskier’s face where she leaned over him. She felt odd and light-headed.

“Third potion, Triss,” Chireadan said. “Now.”

“It’s only been a couple of hours. It’s too soon,” Triss said, still crouched over Jaskier’s body. 

There was a bang at the door and the Quen shivered all over like an angry cat.

“Do as I say Triss.”

The fear coming off Triss sent dread like a claw from the tip of Tissaia’s head to the small of her back. 

“Third potion,” Triss said.

There was another bang at the door.

“Zola,” Chireadan said. “Get my swords and lean them against the table and go open the back door to the caves, please.”

Something black was seeping out of Jaskier’s nose, Triss tilted the boy to the side and it came out of his mouth as well. She switched the tubing going into Jaskier’s raven, it began to make feeble jerking motions.

“He’s too young,” Triss said. “His body isn’t taking it.”

“He’ll be fine,” Chireadan told her, he swayed on his feet, but his hands never faltered. “Have some faith.”

The bang came at the door again, something odd in the sound and Quen shattered.

“They have a mage,” Zola said.

“Triss, be a dear and pack everything up,” Chireadan said, voice showing a bit of strain. “Destroy whatever you can’t carry. All of you are going to leave and find shelter elsewhere. Do not return here for a few years. Do not wait for anyone, do not tell anyone where you are from or where you are going. Act as if you were the last of the School of the Raven. Winter in at Oxenfurt, we have friends there. Do not tell anyone that the school was under attack. Do not tell anyone about the transformation process.”

Triss moved around in her periphery vision almost at a blur, there were flashes of heat and the pop of breaking glass bottles. Tissaia watched Jaskier’s hair turn white. He kept jerking in place. The elf boy wasn’t jerking in place. She was doing something wrong, she had to be doing something wrong. 

“It’s as done as it’s going to be,” Chireadan said. Tissaia released Quin and her hands instantly cramped up into fists. Triss came up behind her and helped her put on a pack and swords, then pulled up her hood for her. Jaskier’s raven twisted up onto its feet, its eyes were white, it was staring at Jaskier’s face, the smear of black around his mouth and nose. “Triss,” he said. “Be a dear and finish this up, will you?” He started muttering to himself in Elder as he pulled out cat potion and drank it down. He was bouncing on his feet in a way Tissaia associated with going a bit feral, his head swinging back and forth.

“Yes, sir,” Triss said. She yanked the tubes out of everyone, wrapped Jaskier and Filavandrel in their sheets like they were shrouds and put the elf in Zola’s arms. “Come on, Zola,” she said. “We need you.”

“But-” Zola started, the door was bowing.

“Don’t be selfish,” Triss snapped at her. “Chireadan told us to go.” She picked up the little acolyte, his pretty white-eyed raven fluttering awkwardly over to perch on the boy’s chest.

The caves under the school weren’t properly underneath it. There was a tunnel covered in the glowing moss that was one ingredient in the tea they drank and cold stone steps going down, down, down. Chireadan looked at her, smiled at her and then closed the secret passage door behind them. There was a scrape on the other side of the door as though something was being moved in front of it.

She. She felt. 

She turned and followed after the other witchers, hating the vulnerability of how her hands were all knotted up. She couldn’t even hold a sword like this. The stairs turned into finally into a kidney-shaped room. There was the partially frozen over pond where the acolyte fish waited to be caught and the hole where little acolytes were tossed in to learn to get out of ice that had cracked or to become food for the fishes in turn. Alta had trained acolytes for at least a hundred years since she lost her leg. The trainer was a blocky woman who kept her hair short and had always been honest with them. _Let the cold polish away weaknesses, learn the edge’s of endurance, become hard and self-sufficient._

She pushed forward, mindful of the ice over the pond. She didn’t have her cleats, but she had been running on snow and ice as long as she could remember. They walked together, out into the open white of the frozen valley. The stink of chaos was heavy in the air as poison in the air. Ahead of her Jaskier was shaking in Triss’ arms, his body jerking in a way that didn’t seem like the cold. She wanted to ask if he was dying, but her mouth stayed stubbornly closed. Behind her she could hear shouting and smell blood. Stribog landed like a stone on her shoulder, clacking at her for a moment before taking off ahead.

Tissaia looked back over her shoulder at the tower, at the screaming cloud of ravens dispersing. Fire blossomed at the front of the tower, an immense wave of Axii that made her eyes sting to look at it. This had been her home for a decade, the massive dark stalactites reaching for a sky that would never reach back. Black towers smooth as obsidian glass with ice piled up like diamonds standing tall on a massive lake of ice. She knew that chance had rescued her, she knew from the death cries of the ravens that witchers were dying – witchers better than her. Still, she could not do the sensible thing and go. Her whole vision was those black towers that had always been warm, full of companionship, a place where she was thought to be more than grief and a temper. A place where she had been taught the coming of the end of the world and how to delay it, delay it, delay it until it was in inconvenience, not a cataclysm.

Zola took her by the arm of her coat and shook her. “We have to go. The kids can’t take prolonged exposure.”

She looked at Zola. Her golden eyes were kind and warm and terrified. Tissaia set her jaw and nodded. She was a witcher. She was strong.


	2. I'm Pleased Enough to Skip the Bite

Filavandrel saw his mother and his brother slain and everything went white and howling behind his eyes. His mind felt like it was stuck in a moment like leaping off a cliff, too late to return to solid ground and nothing beneath his feet. He hovered there, in a land of confused agony accompanied only by the ragged sound of his father’s breath. After that were moments of terrible wakefulness. 

He woke to his father's face. He woke to the cold and a terrible pain. 

He woke to a strange black tower like a claw against the white of a snowy sky. 

He woke to some raven creature bigger than a child perched on his chest, its beak dapped with his blood.

And he woke to Jaskier, his small hands already calloused and hard. Jaskier told him to fight, to survive, that he would help him. The boy’s face was small and soft and yet inside his blue eyes burned a white-hot fire of strength and determination. And because Filavandrel was weak, because he feared death, because he took harbor in the first shore that was steady and not a terrible juxtaposition of a slow death and an agonizing grief, he held on to that lifeline and doomed two souls.

He didn't remember much of what happened, his memory was hazy and disconnected. What he did remember didn't make much sense and Filavandrel had sufficient concern his answers wouldn't be answered honestly to not bother asking the other witchers in the first place. He had been in a river of... of... was it blood or something else? He couldn't move, his body wouldn't obey him, he had sunk seeing nothing but a diffuse light through red, and then there were arms around him, pulling him upward. It had hurt, everything had hurt. There were little black-eyed creatures who said things that made him scream out his pain. Through it all, through it all, there was Jaskier. A head shorter and dragging all Filavandrel's weight as he sang loud enough to drown out those horrible words that scrabbled through the air to chase after them.

And then Filavandrel woke again as something else. As monstrum. He wanted to name the miserable giant of a raven staring at him with white eyes Monstrum, but the witcher who smelled of soft fallow ground and green things - Triss - insisted he name the thing something else lest he regret it. He was wrapped in the sheets that stunk of his blood and the potions that caused his transformation, everything smelled like too much. The cold cut over the overwhelming rush against his senses, without it he was certain he would be overwhelmed entirely. The witcher carrying him smelled different, not like the meaty sweaty scent of the Dh'oine. She smelled warm and dry, not like parchment but similar to it in the feel inside his nose. He could feel how strong she was in the curl of her arm across his back and the way she carried him as though he was weightless. He could hear her slow and steady heart beside his ear.

They walked and walked until they reached the woods outside a Dh’oine town full of ugly Dh’oine architecture. Everything was brown or gray and stank. He could smell the filth of it from where they made camp. The world had become a cacophony to his senses: the indistinct sound of voices from the town, the sound of birds, the rustle of the wind. His nose was full of blood and the scent of sweat and leather, forest musk and the potions in Triss’ bag. Even things he didn’t know he could smell like the green of the grass and the softness of Zola’s hair. If he had tried to explain to himself a week ago what it was he was smelling he wouldn’t have understood and even how he wasn’t sure how to spool out his senses other than there must be other qualities to green and soft things that his nose couldn’t pick out before.

Zola laid him down on the pile of sheets he'd been wrapped in and crouched down on her heels beside him to breathe soft and deep, her raven perched at the nape of her neck with its wings drooping. "Where are we?" he asked. He didn’t want to extend enough trust to ask her, she was dh’oine, but he had been held against her for days and had long since synced his heart to hers.

"Outside of Gulet," Zola answered easy enough. "We need to rest and sleep before we go on. We've been awake for too long."

Triss set down Jaskier too far away. He squirmed out of his wrapping to catch hold of the stinking sheet they'd wrapped the boy in and drag him close, the boy’s raven hopping after it. The boy was dense for being so small, but felt light as Filavandrel tucked him in beside him. That was where Jaskier belonged, next to him, pressed close. The familiarity of Jaskier's weight, his shape and warmth, soothed something in Filavandrel that had been snarling for days. Sleek and pretty even after that long flight, Jaskier’s raven landed close to preen at the both of them. When Filavandrel’s monster landed like a boulder next to them, he pushed it away. He didn’t want it attacking that sweet bird or to get any ideas about Jaskier.

"Are we just going to sleep on the ground?" he asked, tucking Jaskier's head under his chin. 

Triss laid down on the other side of them, pillowing her head with the potion bag. "We don't have any money and people are trying to kill you. We're sleeping on the ground."

The other woman, Tissaia, sat close to Zola, bundling her cloak into a long pillow. She hadn't said anything in ages, after looking over everyone she laid down and pulled Zola down next to her. Zola sighed and allowed herself to be arranged into a comfortable position. Her soft heart-shaped face looked strained, lines of weariness creating planes on her face. With a sigh, Tissaia threw an arm over the bigger witcher as if to force her to sleep by force of will. 

Still, Zola's eyes stayed open, looking over them. "How are you feeling? Any pain?"

"Is there anything you could do if I was?" he asked. "You haven't done anything for Jaskier."

"We kept him from being murdered," Triss said, voice sharp, her raven cwaed in agreement from overhead.

"Triss," Zola snapped back at her.

Triss huffed and turned to face away from them.

"There are things we could try," Zola told him. "If you were hurting."

Filavandrel's hands clutched at the soft fabric of Jaskier's tunic.

"He’ll be okay,” Zola told him. “It can sometimes take up to ten days for a witcher to wake back up again. Jaskier has always had strength of spirit. If you're feeling up in the morning we should begin your training." Zola paused to consider him, he considered her back. "You're stronger than you were before. You could hurt yourself or others without meaning to do so."

"I didn't ask for this," Filavandrel told her.

"I know." She was too understanding. Her voice too kind, he was angry, he wanted to fight! To snap his teeth at her throat! He yowled, a sound that snapped out between his teeth without meaning to make the sound. She lunged at him between the opening and closing of a blink, she rumbled low in her chest, her eyes glowing the yellow of lightning. 

He went still, curling his body around Jaskier. 

"You're alright," she told him, pulling back again. "Just remember that you’re stronger than you were. You can hurt Jaskier without meaning to with him asleep like that. The transformation will make you feel more aggressive. It'll last a couple of days and then things will even off for you. If you start experiencing any... strange hungers, you must tell us right away. It may not feel like it, but you're one among us now. We'll do all we can to help you."

Jaskier's heartbeat was slow and even. He shivered.

"It's cold," Zola told him. "Come move closer."

He didn't want to, he didn't want any of what was happening. The weight of Jaskier in his arms worried him though, the boy wasn't responding. He was limp and weak, stiller than sleep. Filavandrel moved the two of them closer to her warmth. He was certain he wouldn't be able to sleep, but she tucked the sheet around them both and made a gesture that sunk him down into slumber.

When he slept his dreams were terrible, he yowled and thrashed against iron bands and the sky was red and gray and white and full of ravens. He was hungry. He was so hungry he screamed and he begged his mother to feed him but she just said, _Ahh, ahh, ahh_. He clutched at her belly and begged her. He was so hungry and he bit and he ate and ate until his body refused to take any more. He closed his eyes against where he had sunk his teeth, but he knew, he knew. He should stop, he never should have started and the sky was red and gray and white and Jaskier was there and his eyes were black and he sang _I’m here, I’m here, I’m here._

He woke to the sensation of a hook pulling at his ribs from the inside. He flailed on the grass, yowling like a lion cub. Jaskier was laid back beside him, Zola bent over the two of them.

“Leave them, leave them!” Tissaia snapped, voice sharp. There was a scuffle of sound and movement, the witcher women moving around their makeshift camp. The strength of Zola’s arms held him down until she could tuck he and Jaskier together like too folded hands. They were the both of them leaned against her chest. Filavandrel’s tongue roamed along his teeth. They felt sharper and caked and sticky with something.

“Did I bite someone?” he asked.

“Hush,” Zola murmured into his hair. “Hush, you’re alright. You ate when you were adjusting to your changes. You’re back now, that should be the last of it. Jaskier is fine too. I was just taking him to see if I could get a little water in him.”

“Don’t take him away,” Filavandrel said into the side of her neck. “I need him, don’t take him away.”

“We won’t,” Zola told him. “We won’t. You’re alright. It’s alright.”

He heard Tissaia murmuring to Triss as they dressed a deer for breakfast. The smell of the blood and the flesh of the deer was sweet and delicious. He didn’t know why they hadn’t just put their faces into its belly. It smelled delectable. “Something went wrong didn’t it?”

Triss’ shoulders were tense and high, she didn’t say anything. He leaned against the side of Zola’s body, hating how much comfort he found in her strength. He felt so angry. They had known what they were doing was dangerous, letting Jaskier risk his life like that. There had to be others who could have been chosen, others who were older and stronger. They hadn’t, they had gone with the easy option. They had let Jaskier go through with it.

“It’s too soon to know,” Zola whispered to him.

He looked up at her.

“It can take days for a witcher to wake sometimes,” she reminded him.

He grumbled.

She made a soft huffing sound at him, a sound like a laugh. They sat quietly watching Tissaia stab sticks through sections of venison with more force than was probably necessary. “I was the thirteenth child of a poor farmer,” she told him after a long silence. “My parents could barely afford to feed my siblings. Once I was off the teet I had to care for myself. When a witcher came to the farm to kill a forktail that had been stealing the goats the law of surprise wasn’t even evoked. My mother just handled me over. I don’t remember much, not what she wore or whether it was sunny or cloudy. I can’t even remember what the house looked like. But I remember the way she handed me over and the way she turned away.” 

Her voice was soft and warm, he could feel the movement of her slow breathing through her armor. 

“Triss was the law of surprise,” she told him. “So was Jaskier. Witcher Vea had him stay with his parents until he was four or five. Longer than most. I think she was holding out hope she’d find another school to take him. The process the School of the Raven uses works better on girls.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

“None of us were wanted, none of us were loved enough not to give up,” Zola said. “Not until we began our training and became something more. The promise of becoming a witcher was the promise of belonging – both with other witchers and in the world. We would become a vital piece of the world, gain a purpose. You were already wanted, already had a place to belong. We’re going to do our best to understand how you feel about what happened. Please try to understand as much as you can from our perspective.”

He didn’t particularly want to, but that was part of diplomacy. He nodded.

Zola squeezed her arms around him. “It will take a couple days, but we’ll see about getting you back home.”

Filavandrel sat up straighter. “Can’t we go any faster?” he asked. “I can wear a hood, or cover my ears some other way.”

She shook her head, mouth a tense line. “We have no money and all of us have white hair. It makes us noticeable. Witchers are hated by humans enough as it is. And Aedirn tends to attract witchers from the School of the Viper.”

“Are they our enemies?” Filavandrel asked.

“No, we’ve worked with them in the past when it was necessary, but they can be cruel and opportunistic. We’re vulnerable. It’s better not to take the risk.”

He almost snarled something at her, but then stopped by some instinct he had learned between that stone bed in the ice and this too much clearing in the forest. Zola had felt so strong carrying him, like a part of the mountains hemming in around the icy valley, but… But she was only a few years older than he was. With her cape and outer robe were set aside he could see she was barely out of adolescence, not yet an adult. The other women who were sent out to protect the two of them, they were young as well. His rage was edging toward fear. What did any of them know about surviving? How were they meant to survive? He was more grateful than ever to be brought back to Dol Blathanna.

The rest of the journey home meandered, at first so he only saw glimpses of things that were familiar, and slowly becoming increasingly certain he could go back to his bed, so back to his life, go back to his friends.

Now he was awake he was expected to walk, watching the bundle of Jaskier in Zola’s arms up ahead. While he walked Tissaia instructed him on what she said were the very basics.

“I’m going back home,” he told her.

She looked down her chin at him, the movements of her body effortless and smooth. “It won’t do you any harm to learn along the way, now focus. You see one drowner, what do you do?”

He rolled his eyes. “Look for more, they travel in groups. Stay out of the water. Use igni. Pay attention to smell, to the movement of the wind.”

“What are their immunities?” she asked. She continued on like that, lecturing him and then asking questions until his eyes crossed. At first, he grumbled, but there was nothing else to do but walk and worry. They saw the borders of Dol Blathanna on the second day, and he took off running for it, Tissaia traveling in even steps beside him.

Things are tense and strained and Filavandrel didn’t understand. He wanted to go to his rooms, to his father’s rooms, but people asked him questions until Zola had to make soft humming sounds at him to keep him from snapping at them with his teeth. There is question after question, the court physician is there. Bjorn loomed huge and brutal in the corner of his vision. He didn’t understand what was happening. This was his home. This was where he belonged. It went on long enough that Zola and Triss bundled up next to each other on a bench with Jaskier between them and slept. Filavandrel knew he was confused. He knew things were disjointed. He knew his waking and his dreaming were all muddled together into something bare-toothed and frantic as though time had become a staircase he was falling down. With Zola and Triss out of commission, Tissaia stepped forward – her face severe as an Elders, her words sterner than the strictest of her tutors. The two of them are brought before his father’s most trusted councilors and tried with an earnest ferocity not to run out of the council chamber to where Jaskier rested. The room was cold and white and gray with fine carved chairs and the smell of sweet blossoms floating through the long windows surrounded by fluted columns. Tissaia did not touch him, not even just to lean close. Her nostrils flair and her fingertips rest on the council table. Tarienne had red hair and was tall - she centuries on Tissaia, Ilariel was a good friend of Athelinuin – they would play music together often. Still, Tissaia refused to buckle – bullheaded and not giving a hands breadth of space to them

“He has changed,” Ilariel said. “He is not like us anymore.”

He felt a sort of grief and rage in his chest. 

“Filavandrel is strong and brave,” Tissaia said, her back very straight and her nostrils flaring slightly as she paused to look over the two elves. “He is even stronger now he has gone through the transformation. He is an asset to his people.”

“Why should this dh’oine tell us what our people needs?” Ilariel gestured at them.

“I’m not a human,” Tissaia said. “I’m a witcher. One that is from a School that has long been allied with the elves. King Fidháil was good friends with Grand Master Borch. Our School has offered aide to your people many times. Some of you know Grand Master Borch. You know that normally witchers don’t get involved, we are impartial. We manage monsters and take our pay, but we have made ourselves your friends.”

“For some profit,” Ilariel pressed.

Filavandrel looked at Tarienne who gave him a tense smile back.

“For your own profit,” Tissaia said, sounding much older than she was. “We have saved your prince and brought him back again to you. There is no interference here. I don’t understand why there is a debate.”

Tarienne smiled a tight smile, more of a wince. “There is a concern that Filavandrel is too much changed. His behavior has been… odd.”

“You have not spent more than an hour with him,” Tissaia said, voice gone sharp.

“We have spent ten years with him before hand,” Ilariel said. “He is different. He is monstrum. He does not carry the grace of his line.”

Red started to bleed in around the corners of his vision.

“He is getting used to his new senses,” Tissaia told them, part of a lie. He wasn’t sure if she was trying to get rid of him or if she was trying to help him get back home. “He will be more himself once he has had time, surely being home will ease him back into himself.”

Tarienne tilted her head to the side, “Despite the others worries and some of my own concerning what was done to the son of a dear friend and beloved leader, Filavandrel is an elf. He is one of us and we should welcome him again back home.”

Ilariel made a snide noise, making a sharp gesture through the air that made Filavandrel tense up, his body leaning forward. “That is not an elf! That is some changeling stitched together by creatures that had the ear of our king for far too long.” 

“Ilariel,” Tarienne said sharply.

“Look at him! He is not some half-elf. He is unnatural!” Ilariel snapped back.

Again, Tissaia’s nostrils flared. “Our school was founded as an attempt to prevent the end of the world. There is an ancient prophecy telling of signs before the world turns to death and ice. The prophecy of Ithlinne, a prophetess of your own people. It begins with the murder of your people at this place, the blood of the Aen Seidhe will flow here. This is not a secret, it is a threat, and one that our School has done all it can to prevent.”

Again, Ilariel made a sharp aggressive movement at him, Filavandrel followed the movement with a twitch of his head. “More likely a chance to massacre our families while we prepare for an army that won’t come. The dh’oine are satisfied as long as we stay here, they have no desire for our land.”

Blinking at the elf, Tissaia said. He had learned enough of her face to know she wished to be indecorous but contained herself, “If there’s no threat coming, who do you think will massacre your families? And why or how would three young witchers and two children massacre your whole people? You speak nonsense, I know not why when all our _secret desires_ are to return a child to his people.” Her voice was dry and her face had turned coldly stoic, giving nothing away. 

Taking a step forward, Tarienne reached out to Tissaia. “I apologize. His grief makes him a fool. He doesn’t know what he says.”

“I know precisely what I say. King Fidháil was a fool to trust you,” Ilariel snapped back. “Take that thing back with you. It should have been Athelinuin who was saved. If there had to be a loss here, perhaps it is best that it was only Fidháil to his own foolishness.”

With a yowl, Filavandrel launched himself at Ilariel. He can see in his head what he will do. He will take the creature by the hair and he will put his teeth in his neck and tear open his throat and then he will eat his heart and - His plan was cut short as Tissaia caught him out of the air as though picking an apple from a tree and slammed him down onto the ground. A sound came from his throat like a yowl or a roar or a snarl all mixed together. She pinned him with her body, made a rumbling sound against his back that made him go still and watchful under the strength of a superior predator. He scratched across white quartz of the floor unable to scratch at Tissaia and finally just snapped his teeth ineffectually at her. She rumbled again and he went still. The deep instinctive part of himself that lurked low and crouching understood by some unspoken scent or touch that Tissaia was greater to him and only sought to care for and protect him. The weight of her body brace over her back was as much to keep pain away as to keep him from foolishness.

He went still under her, rolling quiet yowling sounds around his mouth.

“Perhaps it would be wise not to taunt a child with the death of his father,” Tissaia said, her voice husky instead of smooth as it had once been.

“Ilariel,” Tarienne said. “You’ve done enough harm. Excuse yourself.”

“You saw what he’s become,” Ilariel said. 

“You have shamed yourself today. Leave,” Tarienne hissed, angrier than he had ever heard her before.

The red took a long time to go from his gaze, but Tissaia didn’t falter, she held her position steady until he went still and limp. Zola would have picked him up, Triss would have spared him a look, but Tissaia just stood. He stood with her, so tired and aching inside his chest.

Tarienne was seated at the table with her face in her hands. She took in a deep breath and then let it out again. “He belongs here, of course. Just not now.”

Filavandrel slipped his fingers under the leather armor at Tissaia’s thigh. He pressed his face against her side. He felt himself begin to shake and cry.

“You can train him you said?” Tarienne said.

“Yes.” Tissaia spoke the word in an abrupt full stop. “The transformation prepares a witcher to survive hardship and monsters. The changes affect the mind as well, once Filavandrel’s body has become used to the change he will be himself again. Perhaps a new self, but himself.”

Tarienne nodded, still not looking at him. “Bring him back then. Not before.”

Tissaia let him hold onto her as she walked out of the council room into the antechamber. He used to play Aswai here when he was still young enough for it to swallow his whole attention.

“I ruined it for myself, didn’t I?” he asked her. He could here the footsteps of his people like the flapping of dove’s wings, but could not see them.

“What you did was dangerous, for yourself and the rest of us.”

He let out a wet hiss of breath.

“There are witchers of the School of the Griffin or the School of the Wolf who are taught to ignore their emotions, who have almost perfect control,” Tissaia told him. “Then there are witchers like us who feel them as though they were our ravens on our shoulders.”

“Like us?” he asked.

Her smile was tight, she reached out and pressed a hand to his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter if you were provoked. You could have killed him, you wanted to tear out his throat with his teeth, didn’t you?”

He swallowed.

“You have the speed now, and the strength. And the teeth for it,” her eyes were not cruel, but they were intense, fierce. “It is your job to protect people, not slay them.”

It didn’t feel fair, but Tissaia and the others were the only ones he had to hold to. He was no one to them, but they called him one of their number.

“If you go to a village and they short you on a contract or throw stones at you and you tear out their throats, everyone turns on our School. We would pay in blood for your mistakes. And who’s fault would that be?” she asked him.

He swallowed. “Mine.”

“No,” she said, her hand tightening on his shoulder. “It would be mine for not killing you. The same as it would be the fault of the others for not putting me down. We all carry each other on our backs now. You as well.”

“I’ll train hard,” he promised her.

Her face softened. “I know you well.” Then after a pause she squeezed his shoulder again. “I should have let him feel your hot breath on his throat. He deserved to piss himself a little. Would you like me to go fetch something of your father’s? Perhaps your brother’s? Or something of your own?”

Filavandrel pressed his face back against her side. Ilariel and Tarienne hadn’t asked such a thing of him. He knew Tissaia could smell his tears, but she didn’t comment on it. “My brother commissioned a lute for me. It’s in my room.” He knew it was a nonsensical thing to want. It would be in the way and it would be of no benefit. He didn’t even know how to play it yet.

She led him through to where Zola and Triss were sleeping under the anxious eye of a couple guards. “It won’t be for long. Zola, wake up. I’m going to fetch a few things for the prince and then we will leave.”

To their surprise Jaskier popped his head up and looked around confused, his brow furrowed and his mouth pulled into a small puzzled line.

Triss jolted up, wrapping her arms tight around the witcher boy. "Jaskier! You're safe! Are you alright? How do you feel? Are you hungry"

The boy just looked more confused, with a blink of his large golden eyes he shuffled out of her arms to stand pressed against Filavandrel's side.


	3. Atlas Engaged In His Endevours

The door of the inn opened letting in the pale yellow of the morning light and in strolled Zola. Triss was still too upset about Jaskier and Tissaia acted like she was four times her age. Zola was a happy medium, a young lady of fifteen, her face soft and round and covered in freckles. She tried to soften the imperious angle to her chin. Under her cloak, she wore her light leather armor, though the edges of the cloak curled around her so she was almost entirely hidden. She marched up to the bar, not meeting anyone’s eye. “One room for tonight,” she told the barkeep, her head turned away. "Two beds."

The inside of the inn was dry, warm, and dark. There was a noisy group of men Zola made note of but made no other sign of being bothered.

The barkeep clicked her tongue. “Where’s your parents, dearest? It's not safe to travel alone right now.”

“They’ll be coming,” she said, trying to soften her tone. People didn't respond in a normal way around her, as though there was something in the girl’s voice that didn’t quite feel right, that niggled. Temeria wasn’t Aedirn but it still wasn’t great to be identified too early as anything but human. “They sent me ahead.”

“A dear thing like you. Wouldn’t you like some breakfast to eat? We have porridge and bread just out of the oven.”

"Yes," she said. It was clear right away that she used too much formality in her tone. She could see the barkeep's brow knit. See the way the woman twisted her upper body back as though to get a sharper look at her. For a moment Zola could see the way the barkeep wondered if the young lady before her was not a child at all, but perhaps a particularly tall dwarf or gnome. There was a sort of twisting of the mouth, pinched together as if she’d had a lemon. "Yes," she said softer this time, trying to curl up the edges like the ends of flower petals. "Enough for my parents and myself. We'll be eating in our room if you don't mind."

The barkeep was already doing a bit of mental math on cost, which the Zola put on the bar without comment or concern, as straightforward as everything else. "When do you want it sent up?"

"An hour should give us sufficient time to get settled." Zola hadn't once met her eye and the barkeep was beginning to become uneasy. Still, what other choice did she have? "I have another question." She slapped down two notices from the bulletin on the board. They’re folded into quarters from where she tucked them together. There’s no point in trying to take on a contract if another witcher swooped in under her. "There's a problem with drowners just north of here and this notice just said there's something flying off with sheep. Both of them are in different handwriting and it doesn't say who'll pay for the creature's heads."

"Shouldn't you be asking the alderman?"

Tilting her head in a sort of irritated motion, Zola huffed out a breath. "He's not in his office and inns are a center for gossip."

"Are your parent's monster hunters then?" the barkeep leaned back a little, wary.

"Yes," she said, voice flat. "Who put these notices up?"

The barkeep leaned in, to have a gander at the two slips of paper when she caught a good look at what was under the hood. Zola could smell the moment, see it, the evidence of it washed up over the witcher in a wave. The barkeeper’s hand clenched on the cloth she had been cleaning the bar with, shoulders rising as she gasped, the crisp edge of fear cut a line between the two halves of their conversation. Zola knew what the woman had seen, the golden yellow of her eyes, like a cat's.

Zola stiffened.

"You're a witcher, aren't you? Some kind of little witchling," the barkeep hissed out. People were starting to look up and pay attention. There weren't that many people in the tavern now, mostly layabouts and travelers.

But taverns were centers of gossip. There was nothing for it.

"I am a witcher," the girl said, lifting her chin higher. 

Behind her the murmuring had started. _Just what the town needs, another monster. Surely she was an unholy creature, no maidenly modesty to her at all. True enough, her features were not quite right, just off. It was certain the little fiend was the very spawn of hell._ That sort of thing made Triss angry, but Zola just felt sort of tired of it. It was inconvenient and annoying. They’d survived so far off of slaying drowners and nekkers, and they needed a place to settle and rest. Now they would have to camp out or move on.

"We'll not have your kind here snatching children in the night," the barkeep snapped at her.

She scooped her coin back off the bar, her face unflinching. She made an irritated rumble but kept it there. The last thing she needed was to wear out their welcome entirely by thrashing farmers in a tavern..

Zola rode out to the woods taking a lazy looping path, Hesta riding in front of her on the front of Clop’s saddle. If she pushed herself she could swear she smelled the fire, the subtle herbal scent of Triss on the wind as she drew closer as well as Tissaia’s sharp crisp smell, and the sweet child animal smell of the boys. The woods around White Orchard were fairly sparse considering the area, although they held the promise of growth. After months of traveling far and fast the lands in Tameria was a relief. Food was certainly more plentiful than it had been anywhere around Praenuntius. There were birds everywhere, deer, squirrels, snakes, all manner of fruits and herbs. It was the first time Zola had seen Triss smile in a long time. 

She kept her head still and her eyes scanning over the woods. She was not going to be the one to draw any unsavory attention to the rest of the party. There was a rustling in the branches overhead, a familiar smell, a familiar low predatory breathing pattern. She braced herself, slowing her own breathing and sending Hesta on toward the campsite.

There was a moment of silence, the whole forest going still and a small body landed on her back. She was braced for it and didn’t so much as sway. Jaskier made silly low sort of cwaing sounds in her ear, the exact sort of sounds the ravens made, his smile traipsed across the back of her neck and her cheek as he clung on. His small hands, stained green and berry pink from whatever he'd been eating, scrambled to take a hold of the front of her armor to brace himself enough to get his feet against the small of her back and flip her off the horse. They'd all been trained the same, he wasn't going to win that trick with her. With one hand she flipped him off her shoulder and belly down over the front of her saddle. "Now, Little Bird. That wasn't very friendly was it?"

He retaliated by biting at her thigh, which really she should know better by now. She laughed, ruffling her hand with rough affection across his hair and across his shoulders. Jaskier's raven Aphra circled above them in lazy loops, not looking particularly bothered, but keeping an eye on things. Zola flipped Jaskier onto his back. His eyes were watching her and his gaze sharp, the gold of his eye a shining ring around the darkness of his pupil, his teeth were bared in a smile big enough to squinch up his eyes. He didn't say anything but gave her sharp looks as he twisted, his rangy little limbs swinging at her. It had been months, she had become an expert of sorts on pinning the child witcher down out of range of his calloused little heels or his scrabbling hands. His fingers found the raven's head medallion around her neck and he went still with satisfaction at whatever his ambush was supposed to accomplish. The gentle pull of the chain against the back of her neck was non-threatening, almost sleepy. He hummed at her, she patted her fingers against his sternum.

She would not show her relief around anyone else, but the relief she felt at Jaskier's survival, at the mischief sparkling in his eyes, at the way he moved just how they were trained was so intense it sometimes took her breath away. She had thought he would never wake up, or wake up wrong somehow. But no, here he was, silly and boyish and full of too much mischief. The same as much as he was different. Weren't they all after their transformation?

She thought about when she was still an acolyte and they had the ice test. She had waited in line to be thrown into a hole in the ice and then to have to crawl out on her elbows like she had been taught. Mistress Alta with the steel leg and the twisted smile had lined them up and told them. _It's up to you if you crawl out of the hole or not, I'm not fishing you out. When a manticore takes off with your leg in its mouth,_ she had said slapping at her thigh, _you can finish the job or you can lie there and just wait to perish._

Jaskier was a witcher, he wasn't lying around to wait for death. Neither would Zola.

Triss stood with a grin dusting off her trousers when Zola rode into camp,. The camp had all been packed up, although the fire had been left burning, that was easy enough to put out again. "I'll be glad to-" she began to say and then stopped, her mouth falling into a flat line. With a hand under Jaskier's shoulders, Zola flipped the young witcher down to the ground. He landed in a crouch as easy as breathing, both he and Filavandrel were as unbreakable as young willow branches. If they fell, they bounced.

Triss knew the look on Zola’s face and seemed to struggle for a moment to know what to say. Tissaia, who had been feeding Stribog bits of mouse looked up with a sharp expression from under her brow. Filavandrel who had been pouting next to her pulled into himself a little. He had that floppy hat on to cover his ears and he looked deeply resentful of the whole situation. Aphra and the prince's own Bjorn were perched on the branch above the elf. Bjorn kept trying to warble at Aphra, but frankly, Jaskier's raven had enough to worry about without a male the size of a small eagle hopping after her. 

"The Alderman wasn't in yet and the inn was unhelpful," Zola said. She should have done things better. She should have been more careful with her questions or her hood, which of course no one said because everyone knew.

"He'll have to be in town listening to business by noon," Tissaia said, voice rumbles velvet smooth and razor-edged. "Even the laziest alderman of the smallest town has to work sometimes."

She dismounted, leading Clip over to Prima and Clop. Jaskier kept scampering around her, ducking under Prima's belly in a way that would have made the horse kick just a few months ago. While Jaskier had gotten over the confusion and disorientation that had marked his waking - as feral at times as if he had taken a potion - he hadn’t regained any of his good sense when he regained his personality. He was small and wild and squeaky, best friends with whatever crossed his path whether it was a frog or a fellow witcher. It had almost been a relief, an anchor, his determination and ferocity in the face of loss.

“Come on then,” Zola said, hooking him up under her arm to keep him from being kicked. 

“The bird isn’t going to learn his lesson if you coddle him like that,” Tissaia said.

“I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” Filavandrel said, voice tight. His eyes were old and angry in a little elfling’s face. He looked not above ten years – though it was hard to tell with elves. The prince told very little about himself and no one who would know the details of his age or origin had stuck around to share with the rest of them.

“And I wish he wouldn’t bite people,” Tissaia snapped back at him. “I have a feeling neither of us will get what we want.” 

"He has a name," Filavandrel murmured as if they all couldn't hear him. He looked over at Zola with his bowed head. Boys. 

Zola made some kind of expression at Filavandrel that like as not meant he shouldn't be running to mother's skirts anytime he wasn't happy about something. "We might try the inn again in the evening, different barkeep," Zola said. "Or perhaps there's a farmer with a barn and a generous heart. Do you remember that goat farmer? All the little kids were being born, the farmer let us help her."

"I-" Triss said, determined to allow herself to be cheered up even as her expression was a little tight around the corners. "I did enjoy that. The kids were so little and soft. A blanket over a pile of hay makes a good mattress."

They were all a little tense. She watched as Filavandrel breathed in and out, keeping himself calm. It was no secret that Filavandrel was not happy to be a witcher. He hadn't trained for it, hadn't been prepared for it, he'd been dropped on their doorstep out of his father's fear and not much else. Wherever strange prophecy had to do with him, he hadn't been consulted. He hadn't been polished by the cold, hadn't been turned hard and fierce and glittering like ice. He didn't know what it meant to be the only living things for miles other than the fish that swam blind in the cave under the fortress and the ravens that filled the towers. He had never had the chance to learn to love Alta and Grand Master Borch. She reminded herself of this as often as she needed to in order to avoid throwing him off a cliff.

Tissaisa's money was almost gone, they couldn’t spend time coddling. Zola and Triss had the training and knowledge but had no experience on the other side of teaching. Although Filavadrel was older, he was effective as the girls that stumbled new into the tower at just half a dozen things she could pluck off the top of her head: endurance, meditation, monster lore-

 _"Jaskier. Caemm 'ere, taedh,"_ Filavandrel said in Elder, reaching out his arms for Jaskier. Jaskier wiggled out of her grip to run over to him, beaming. He wrapped his arms around the prince's elbow and leaned into him with such a bright happy smile as if they'd been such long friends the stars couldn't count the beginning of it. The prince fussed over the little wild witcher, straightening his tunic and tsking at the state of his hair. _"You've gone into disarray again. Where's the comb?"_

Jaskier darted off to go through Filavandrel's pack.

Zola had been looking forward to a night on a mattress in an inn for everyone else's sake as much as hers. A closed door that could be jammed shut always helped her sleep better, even with the fear that came with taking Filavandrel and Jaskier into a town where humans were. All of them were ravenous creatures, burning with energy. Jaskier and Filavandrel were the worst of them with a habit of disappearing first out of the group's huddle to go do whatever they did in the wilderness. Filavandrel was pompous and self-important for someone so small – he carried the ancient arrogance of his people on his shoulders. That gained enough of Tissaia’s respect to bleed over to the rest of them. It also made him an immediate target to anyone who looked at the boy twice. The only softness in the elf was where Jaskier was concerned. Jaskier would sing little humming tunes for him, and follow after the elf with that soft little duckling look on his face.

It was still morning, there was still the whole morning to get things done.

"How are we dividing the labor?" Tissaia asked. Move forward, keep going.

"We need a few herbs I haven't been able to find," Triss said. “I need a space of time to just sit down and brew. We're almost out of hair dye and a few potions I'd just rather have on hand."

"We also need some supplies, fabric, bread and salt - that sort of thing," Zola said. "I can handle that."

That left the question of the boys.

Jaskier had found the comb and had pulled off Filavandrel's cap to begin to make a surprisingly effective go at combing the prince's hair into sections to begin braiding. 

"I can take the boys. Some of the shopping's for them anyway," Zola said in Elder. "They're growing out of their clothes by the day. And I'd like them to go with me to check out whatever's been running off with the sheep. It's a good learning experience for Filavandrel and Jaskier has the best senses out of all of us."

That and Jaskier wasn't always sensible when it came to monsters, there was always the worry that he'd just go running into the water to try and tear the drowners' throat out with his teeth. And Filavandrel was still learning control.

"We'll have to be careful going into town," Zola admitted. "The barkeep saw my eyes. She knows I'm a witcher. And there were others in the place who overheard. She asked me where my parents were and I just said they were coming, I didn't mention anyone else my age, but there's always a bit of a buzz about.”

Tissaia nodded, looking over all of them. “Everyone be careful. People get brave because we're small. I don't want to have to kill anyone. We're distinct enough, we don't need a byline to go with it."

Jaskier suddenly sat up straighter, his whole body poised as his eyes looking into the distance. They all tensed, Jaskier's sense of smell was sharp.

"Ada," Triss said to her raven. "Scout." The raven took to the air, wings almost as silent as an owl's as it disappeared into the trees.

"Ready yourselves," Tissaia said, hand on the hilt of her sword. Filavandrel took back his hat and covered his ears. Jaskier took hold of the prince's hand with one of his, standing braced at his side. 

There was a shrill from the woods and Ada circled back again, almost unnecessarily, they could all smell what had caught Jaskier's attention now. "Man, man," Ada croaked, circling back to Triss. They looked at each other, usually, they would play at subtlety, but Tissaia had trouble in town and whoever it was had taken pains to try and sneak up on them.

Triss pressed her cheek to Ada's feathers and drew her dagger at her side. The three older witchers moved into formation. The older in front and the boys in back. Zola had her hands on her hips and her shoulders rolled forward, she could crush ribs with a tackle to the chest if she had to, it wouldn’t be the first time she crushed a man. Triss was much lighter on her feet, she looked the most harmless, but she was the fastest without argument.

There was a very deliberate snapping of a twig and a silence after it as if they couldn't hear his breath and the plod of his human feet on the leaves. He smelled of camp smoke, leather, and a bit like the woods themselves.

A man in light hunting armor stepped out from between the trees with his posture pointedly loose. He had a naturally narrow face with heavy eyelids and a controlled expression. The coat of arms he wore wasn't one she recognized, white and blue with stars resting over his chest. She'd seen finer armor, but it was still very well put together for leathers. He had to be employed by someone, a mercenary wouldn't be so tidy and most hunters didn't dress themselves so nicely. There was a bow on his back and a short sword and dagger at his hip.

"It's true," the hunter said, looking over them. "Little witchers."

Tissaia gave him her best withering look. "State your business. Name yourself."

The hunter lifted his head, his hand hovering over his thigh on the side where he wore a short sword. "I'm Mislav. I'm looking for someone, let me see your faces."

Zola just stood there, Tissaia gestured to her own face with sarcasm thick enough to cut with a knife, Triss was a little more polite about it. 

"A good look at all of you," he said.

Resistance or compliance? Zola gave a careful roll of her shoulders. They could fight, but what would they do when a whole town came after them? When no one would hire them? Tissaia shifted to the side to show the two boys. "We don't want any trouble. We're about to move on. You can see we're already packed."

Mislav had just begun to get a good look at Filvandrel when Jaskier scowled and stepped in front of the elfling, their hands still interlocked together. Something softened in the hunter's gaze, something sad and pained. "I don't want trouble, for myself or to cause any for you. A local boy has gone missing and it's said a witcher has taken him."

"We don't need another mouth to feed," Tissaia said. "It's just the five of us."

"No, a specific witcher. Kolgrim," Mislav said.

It was lucky she hadn't run into this other witcher in town, although it explained a bit of why the barkeep had reacted so strongly to her. "Not all witchers know each other," she said.

"But there are witcher children," Milslav pressed, gesturing at them. Tissaia and Zola shifted at the same time to block off the view of the boys.

"None of us were kidnapped," Triss said. "Our parents couldn't feed us, or we were wards of the Law of Surprise. Are you certain that this Kolgrim didn't claim the Law of Surprise and someone is just going back on their word?"

The hunter pressed his lips together for a moment, turning his head to look at her out of the corner of his eyes. "Paul... Paul is the father. I've not known him to be deceitful. But if he promised his child away who knows what he did. Do witchers often use the Law of Surprise?"

These witcher specific questions were making her uncomfortable. "Many people use the Law of Surprise. If a debt can't be paid in coin then chance is the best decider of payment."

"If people are already ready to think the worst of you, leaving it up to chance is perhaps the best decision," Milslav said. "You lot might want to be careful. A child goes missing, a witcher is accused, and then witcher children show up around the same time."

Triss eased her weight to the side. "Some people might see it as proof that witchers make a habit of stealing children."

"I've tried to find Kolgrim, but he must be making an effort to avoid detection," Milslav told them. "And I'd be asking him to trust his life in the care of the people who think he's a child thief at best and a child eater at worse."

Stribog flew forward to land on Tissaia’s shoulder, his beak rifling through her hair. The raven was unexperienced but canny, Zola could hear the clicking of his beak. "You've come looking for us because you want a peaceful solution," Tissaia said, her arms crossing over her chest. "If this Kolgrim is decided to be guilty when it turns out the missing child has run away to become a knight, and we're still here, then we'll be judged involved. He has nothing to do with us, we can take him or leave him. If you want to hire one of us, you're going to have to give us something more than, _oh no, there's a mystery._ Preferably something coin shaped. Enough to pay for the trouble of it."

"You want me to hire you?" Milslav asked.

"One of us," Zola said, rolling from her heels to her toes. "We don't come as a package deal."

For a moment the hunter looked ready to argue, but then he turned his head to the side, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. "That sounds fair enough. I can't say I trust you lot, but nothing you've said has been unreasonable. Who would you suggest?"

"I look the oldest," Tissaia told him. "I'm going to need more information to do what I can to help straighten this out. I need to know about the boy who was missing - I'd like to speak to his father, and I need information on his Lordship. Also," she held up the two notices Zola had brought back. "Who put up these two notices, they don't have names or rewards listed, but they're in different handwriting,"

He looked back and forth between the two of them for a moment, then back at her. "I can't read."

Tissaia endeavored not to sigh. "This one says there's a problem with drowners, and this one says something's stealing sheep."

"Oh, the drowners is probably from His Lordship, and the sheep one might be the alderman. I haven't heard anything about it. The only thing I know about that might be big enough to do that is a wyvern. That's the contract that Kolgrim is here to take care of, the wyvern one. Anything that might effect the harvest makes His Lordship antsy."

She passed the drowners to Triss and the possible wyvern to Zola, "Sorry, Zola."

Zola made a face. "Why don't we all stick together today to make sure we get the supplies we need and then if everything still looks safe tomorrow the boys and I head on. White Orchard isn't that large of a town and there aren't enough contracts for all of us and another witcher. It might be a good idea to get the boys out of view with things how they are..." Zola pulled her mouth to the side, her expression of concern speaking for her.

She could tell the plan made Tissaia a little anxious, but it made sense, they had split up into pairings before. Everything would be fine. "It's a plan then. Milslav, tell me about his lordship then. How superstitious is he?" Tissaia asked. "How likely to be fair?"

Milslav sighed. "The man is not a bad lord, he's a strict, precise man. Not given to be overly generous, but also not one to delay his work's wages even a single hour. The land isn't his by inheritance, but by marriage. The Amavet Fortress was in the hands of the Lavelles, they were the ruling family here in White Orchard for as long as anyone can remember. The former lord was Florian Lavalles who had no sons and one daughter, Francesca. Francesca married Ignatius Verrieres - who is the current lord. The two of them had two sons, Florian and Ignatius the Second."

"In your opinion, are either of the sons likely to be reasonable and persuade their father to do the same?" Zola asked.

Milslav gave her another one of those looks out of the corner of his eye. He did it - she recognized now after speaking with him - to hide the fact that he was soft about something. "Yes. Young Lord Florian. He has his namesake's confidence. He has nothing to prove and so can afford to be reasonable in ways that his brother can't. If you don't mind a walk to the fortress. I can't lead you there."

"I might as well go along," Triss said. "I want more information on the drowner contract anyway before I start doing work for free."


	4. Moods Move Quick Like Silver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit late due to some covid issues, but my spirit has been conforted with these corvid friends. The plot thickens, the devils in the details, and it looks like the Raven Witchers are on the hunt.

Triss watched the slow flare of Tissaia’s nostrils and the way she kept straightening her back as they walked along. It was good to know that Tissaia was as anxious about this whole thing as she was. The truth of it was they really did need the money. She and Zola were taking turns using the same armor, they didn’t have any armor for the boys at all, they needed rope and new fabric for clothes and bandages, leather for patching, and ingredients she couldn’t just gather. Quebrith was in most potions and unless she could get her hands onto sulfur to process, she was going to have to craft it. 

The weight of everything that needed doing was an immense cloud moving over her head or some wild swerving creature running through her veins dragging a burning brand behind it. There was too much for her to try and hold inside her head. Everything was if-this-then-that and she couldn’t talk about it because if she did then everyone would realize how little she knew. That the reason Jaskier wasn’t the way he was before was because she had made mistakes during the transformation. She could see what the others missed; she had gotten the percentages off. She knew she had when Jaskier had seized and shook on that table, his soft tissues off-bleeding the inky black of the body rejecting what was being pushed into it. Jaskier who was always singing had gone silent and confused.

Ada made a soft comforting sound, Triss smoothed down her feathers with her fingertips and sent her raven on ahead. Tissaia sent Stribog on after Ada with a shrug of her shoulder.

“How much of a search has there been already?” Tissaia asked Milslav.

“They haven’t brought me in yet,” he told them. “It’s been in the hands of Bailiff Blume and his bully boys. Usually all Blume has to deal with are drunkards and nuisances, he’s gone a bit wild with the excitement of it all. At least he’s organized some villagers for a search, but I’ve been searching for the witcher, I’m not certain what’s already been done and what’s in plan.”

“Any footprints might be trampled,” Tissaia said, making an annoyed sort of hissing noise between her teeth. “There are other things it could be. A doppler, even that wyvern that’s been stealing sheep might have gone for different prey, then there would be no tracks at all.”

Milslav paled. “Is that likely?” 

Blinking at the hunter, Tissaia seemed to notice how queasy he looked. “It could be other things. No need to speak of it now.”

They were quiet for the rest of the way

The fortress rising up on its green plateau did not impress as a defensible position. It was red brick and white plaster, pretty but not enough to stand up to a concerted attack. Ada and Stribog were sat in the branches of a tree with branches that stretched over the brick wall of the fortress. This place would be child’s play to overthrow for all that it had such an important roll in protecting one of the greatest food producers in the kingdom. The gate – which was at least guarded – opened and a pale-haired man of the sort who had been born large and never had to learn what to do with what he was given bustled down the path at them.

“It’s alright, Blume!” Milslav called out holding out a hand. “They’re here to help.”

When Blume got close enough, he made a show of gasping and threw some kind of warding gesture at them. “They can help from the dungeon next to that child snatcher.”

Triss’ hand moved to rest on the handle of her dagger. Tissaia’s hands unfurled loose and ready at her sides.

“The witcher’s been found then?” Milslav asked.

“Trying to sneak back into the inn in town to take back his pack. He had a wicked diagram for a death-dealing implement on his person which he used to intimidate poor little kidnapped Vitty! Possibly to kill him!”

Triss and Tissaia looked at each other. If Kolgrim was transporting a Viper sword diagram or even some other weapon he wouldn’t risk leaving it behind. As priceless as a witcher was, another witcher could be made in their place. Ancient diagrams for weapons or armor were almost always one of a kind and irreplaceable once lost.

Milslav leaned back on his back heel. “He threatened him with the diagram?”

“No!” Blume declared. Milslav was right, the bailiff certainly enjoying the thrill of capturing a witcher too much. “His sword. I’ll escort these two down to the dungeon to wait with the other one for the torturer to arrive.”

Tissaia widened her stance.

“Lord Florian wouldn’t like that, he’s the one who requested their presence,” Milslav spoke with a smoothness that bellied his lie.

“What would His Lordship want with two of those things?” Blume said.

“He requires supplies for his experiments he hasn’t been able to find from a merchant,” Milslav said.

“As the bailiff, I don’t think I should allow them to just wander around the fortress,” Blume pressed.

“I won’t be keeping his lordship waiting,” Milslav pressed back. “I’ll be escorting them.”

The pinched look of a man who always thought of himself as right came over Blume’s face. “Very well, I’ll ask Lord Lavalles myself.”

“Feel free,” Milslav said with that same even tone.

Triss waited for Tissaia’s lead.

“I know this seems suspect,” Milslav said turning to them.

Tissaia turned her head to give him a look, whatever it was quelled Milslav. “You said the head of the keep was Lord Verrieres.”

“Florian is called Lord Lavalles after his grandfather. I told you this land was owned by the Lavalles family before Ignatius Verrieres married the old lord’s daughter. Please, just come in, if you are not guilty you have nothing to fear,” Milslav tried.

“Spoken like someone who has never been submitted to the opinion of fools,” Tissaia said. She sounded so strong, her voice powerful and smooth. Triss wanted to press close to her, but didn’t dare show weakness. “Witchers do not become involved in the affairs of men.”

Milslav’s mouth pressed together in the first real sign of irritation. “The both of you are girl children and you almost outpaced me the whole way here without tiring. A grown man would be far stronger, have better endurance. I think we can all agree that if Kolgrim truly wanted to escape he could have, leave with his life and swords then earning the rest back later. But he didn’t. There’s something in his bags that he can’t part with. If you extend your trust just a few more steps you’ll see that Florian is a good man, trustworthy. In return, I’ll be sure that he has his bag returned quickly and quietly.”

“Why does this matter so much to you?” Triss asked.

Again, Milslav looked irritated at being pressed. “I am currently in want of Sir Ignatius’ favor to store up for a rainy day. If I help to solve the matter and find Vitty wherever he is than my standing as the baronet’s hunter will increase and he will think higher of me.”

“What rainy day are you storing that favor up for?” Triss narrowed her eyes at him. This place was starting to stink of intrigue.

“It is the affairs of men, it’s no concern of yours, Witcher,” he answered, voice tight.

There was fear and anxiety in his sweat now. There was no reason to press further, it was enough of an answer and the less they knew the better. “Very well,” Tissaia agreed. “Let’s see what we can do before Blume gets too far ahead of us.”

Milslav didn’t bother to hide his relief. They followed him into the fortress, Triss’ hand not straying from the handle from her dagger.

“That’s His Lordship,” Milslav said quietly, nodding at a distinct man walking out of the keep proper with a cluster of fawning ladies at his shoulders.

Florian Verrieres was a man somewhere between handsome and odd-looking with the sort of startlingly blue eyes one could see from across the courtyard under a shock of black hair and a wide square jaw. He dressed in that way that nobles did, bright as a peacock with too many bits of stitchwork and fiddidees sewn onto his clothes - although he was dressed far more within the bounds of reason than she had been led to believe of peacocks of the young lord's age. As they grew closer Triss was hit under the eyes with the bright fragrance of the lordling’s perfume and the scent of herbs. Despite the warm herbs and flowers of Florian’s perfume, he wore with him the scent of leather and the forest transferred by touch. Triss stumbled a step in surprise. No wonder Milslav was both so sure of Florian and so determined to get the baronet’s favor. She didn’t know why Milslav wouldn’t just tell them the reason he trusted Florian so much, although they had been warned some places were particular about… mingling. She felt now that she must be incredibly careful about what she might say in front of others until she knew the measure of things. 

Blume bustled toward his lordship like a child running to tattle. “Lord Lavalles,” he said. “Did you call for these little monsters?”

"Your Lordship," Milslav said with a certain weight in his voice and looked at Florian out of the corner of his eye. Triss just bet he did.

"Lord Lavalles," Tissaia said, her tone rounded with Court formality.

“Ah, of course!” Florian lied with all the good-natured ease typical of humans. “You’ve picked an awkward time to answer my summons. I do apologize for that. But I am very pleased that you’re here. I hate to inconvenience you further, but I must ask if you wouldn’t mind walking with me to my greenhouse. I’m working on a particular strain of pear that I can’t waste any time in tending.”

“As you will, Your Lordship,” Tissaia said with Vea’s smooth confident tones.

Florian tilted his head a subtle sort of respect before turning his head at a tilt to smile at the ladies following after him. “You’ll have to forgive me, ladies. I must depart.” Both parties cooed at each other for far too long while Blume looked frustrated to the side.

Milslav almost fell back to walk behind them before Tissaia pivoted sharply back to tread next to the hunter. Triss took the opportunity to move forward and walk shoulder to shoulder with Florian. There wasn’t much she could say to him in front of everyone, but it made her more comfortable than walking on her own. His Lordship seemed in no more of a rush to talk, for all that he smiled as he strode across the courtyard of the fortress toward a greenhouse peeking up over the side of the hill he smelled anxious. Once they had walked down the winding path and entered the walls of the greenhouse Florian seemed to relax substantially. 

The greenhouse was large but not nearly as large as the growing room at the School of the Raven. Mistress Meriwe reigned over the growing room with a green thumb and an iron fist. It was a grace that Meriwe had never had to see how horribly her student had failed. Jaskier had almost died, because of Triss’ failures. 

The fragrant air of the greenhouse was different than the rich herbal smell of the growing room and yet still overwhelmed with memory. It smelled sweet and blossom soft inside so her sense of smell was deadened under a hundred layers of lace and gauze. Along the walls, there were a number of shelves spaced up the glass from waist height and higher with all manner of sprouts and sprigs, twigs hoping to be saplings, and seeds set out to dry. Even under the shelf, there were large pots with labeled flowers in some kind of notation she was unfamiliar with. There was such a cluster of greenery that the view inside the greenhouse was obscured in parts, like trying to peek through a peculiar shrubbery. 

On the side of the greenhouse facing out over the Orchard proper, a space on the shelves had been cleared into a sort of workspace with a couple of shallow alchemists’ cabinets attached to the frame of the greenhouse. It was there Florian gravitated, pulling a small key out from a narrow silver chain and used it to unlock one of the cabinets. The shelves were full of small glass bottles, the whole top shelf was filled with containers of little containers filled with blue powder instantly recognizable as aether. What was he doing with aether if he wasn’t interested in alchemy?

She struggled to smell much more around the heavy green smell in the enclosed space. If she was better at potions she would have known more. 

Florian turned to look at Tissaia and Triss. “I suppose you’re here about that witcher Father has locked up in the dungeon?” There was something odd and too tight about Florian’s face. Something pulled too tight around the edges. "If you don’t mind me saying, witchers, your eyes are fascinating.”

"As you say, your lordship,” Tissaia employed a diplomatic approach. Florian was soft and friendly. 

"I didn't know there were lady witchers," Florian said with interest. "I have great curiosity about natural philosophy. I haven’t the talent for alchemy to the great lamentation of my professors, but I’m still intrigued by a number of things. I apologize if I was intrusive. I get ahead of myself sometimes. Please do feel free to tell me if I ask too much.”

“No harm done,” Tissaia said. “I was discussing the possibility of assisting in the discovery of the missing boy with your man here.”

Face twisting into unease, Florian leaned back against his workbench. For a moment he pressed his fingertips against his forehead, the expression he wore almost made him look like another man. Then it passed and His Lordship looked soft again. “Yes, the whole thing is mess. The witcher stands accused and yet the logic of it doesn’t add up. If growing things has taught me anything, it’s that there is a cause and effect. One can’t always guess the precise effect of an experiment, but it is caused by something that makes sense in retrospect. And this doesn’t make sense from any direction. If Witcher Kolgrim had Vitty, why not just go?”

A bit of tension went out of Triss’ shoulders at Florian’s admission. Tissaia moved forward a little to mark herself as the spokeswoman. “We told Milslav that a witcher wouldn’t have just kidnapped a child. It would only mean another mouth to feed, another back to watch. It is very likely young Vitty is lost in the woods or that he received a wild hair to go on an adventure. The only other exception might be if a child was given as back of the Law of Surprise in exchange for lives saved without the chance at payment. If Vitty was a ward of the Law of Surprise it could be his father lied about it in an effort to retain his son.”

Florian’s fingertips stroked up and down the leaves of a nettle plant as he thought as one might pet a cat or a dog, his eyes gone distant. He seemed the sort of person to pet his plants. There was something slightly off about his expression, about the way he moved his fingertips up the leaves, although she couldn’t place it. “It is something to keep in mind. Although I will say it’s suspicious that while witchers are said to travel alone now there are three and two of them are children.”

“It’s safer to travel with a companion when one is perceived as weak,” Tissaia said. “Otherwise we’d have to knock out opportunists wherever we go. Slows down travel and isn’t great for business.”

The corner of Florian’s mouth tilted up. He was a very mobile man, his arms crossing as he leaned back on one hip. “Of course. You wouldn’t want to slow down travel time. Just be careful if you chose to investigate this. I suspect that Milslav is the one who asked you to go on the hunt for poor Vitty. I’m afraid he’ll probably want to steal your glory as well.”

Tissaia shrugged. “That’s probably for the best, I don’t know that we’ll want to be connected to the matter any more than we already are.”

“I have enough money in my personal treasury to see you paid. You’d be surprised how much people want to buy plants they know will grow. I don’t know how much jobs like this go for. Is three hundred enough? Orens I mean. I hate to be a miser, but the money is only available if you actually find Vitty.”

Was three hundred orens enough? For finding a child? How rich was Florian?

“That’s acceptable,” Tissaia said, her face remaining composed. “You said the witcher had been brought in. Do you know what School he was from?”

“School?” Florian asked.

“He was wearing a pendant,” Tissaia said instead, catching the narrow chain around her neck with one finger and lifting it so the dangling wedge of the raven’s head flashed in the light. “Do you remember the animal on it?”

“Oh,” Florian said. “I think it was some kind of snake.”

School of the Viper then. It made sense and was expected, the School of the Viper tended to cluster around Aedirn. It was still concerning. Vipers weren’t as mad as Cats but they had a strangeness to them that put her back up the few times she’d met one. It was comforting to have Tissaia there. She always seemed to know what to do before the problem even arose. Triss had seen her at the table steady-handed and with a strength of spirit enough to spin away death with her fingertips.

“Is that bad?” Milslav said in that hunter’s way of his.

“That’s informative,” Tissaia said, no need to give too much information. It was a delicate balance between keeping their secrets and making strangers suspicious. “The training is different in each School, different focuses. Tell me more about Kolgrim, how long ago did he arrive?”

Sometimes the best way to avoid pointed questions was to start asking questions of one’s own. 

Milslav shifted, thumbs tucking into his belt as he talked. “He arrived the day before yesterday. He rode into town, was seen around, came up here for the wyvern contract, and stayed the night at the inn, the boy was gone in the morning. Kolgrim said he had nothing to do with the disappearance, the villagers don’t believe him. His horse and his pack were taken as collateral. And you heard that he was caught trying to get his bag back.”

Florian shrugged. “I don’t know that much more about it. I wanted to ask him some questions, but he wasn’t interested and neither of us had time to waste with me pestering him. He seemed stilted and a bit odd, but not the very root of evil. He made a point, in fact, to tell me he didn’t perform assassinations which made me feel a little sorry for his experiences with nobles so far. I was just curious about the potions witchers use. I have heard the most curious things about how witchers process certain herbs to help preserve them longer. He simply wasn’t interested in the conversation.”

Milslav gave Florian sharp sort of husbandly look of fond exasperation. It seemed like Florian had a sort of singular focus.

“When specifically, was the boy seen last?” Triss asked. “And who by?”

“According to Paul’s testimony,” Milslav said. “The night the witcher arrived when his mother tucked him into bed.”

“Did he have a habit of wandering off? Dreams of adventure?” Triss pressed.

“I didn’t know the boy that well. His parents insisted that he had to be taken,” Milslav looked at them out of the corner of his eye for a moment. “I don’t think they’re lying, but everyone has things they want to obscure for reasons that aren’t even trying to hide some terrible crime. Parents can become irrational about perceiving any blame. People with children can be so driven to be perceived a certain way, to avoid the perception of others that they destroy the thing they love to do it. It never matters what is real as much as fitting into the certain framework of appearances.” Milslav’s mouth pulled down to the side, “It must be wonderful to be a witcher and free of certain feelings. Elegant and straightforward.”

There was a tone to his voice that seemed to imply he was speaking of more than just the missing child. Was Milslav implying that something else might be going on, that the villagers were lying about where the boy went, or perhaps just Paul, the father of the boy? When complemented each other it wasn’t always a good indication of the man’s character only that – as Milslav had said – that the man fit a certain perception. A man called honest could still cheat his tenets, a man called good-natured could still beat his children, a man called good could still murder. Perhaps all that Milslav was saying was to be aware appearance and action would not always match here. Florian’s face seemed to flinch all over at Milslav speech, his expression struggling to make itself known on his face.

Triss looked at Tissaia who flared her nostrils but made no other indication of effect.

“I’ll take the job,” Tissaia said. “Three hundred orens to find Vitty son of Paul. And I assume to give Milslav the credit?”

Milslav shrugged his shoulders. It was no skin off their back as long as they still were paid.

“It is a delicate question, but it must be asked. Does the same price apply alive, injured, or dead?” Tissaia asked. “There is a chance what’s keeping Vitty from home is misadventure.”

“Yes, yes. Alive or dead. Poor boy-” Florian suddenly started crying with a suddenness that made Triss startle back. He blinked tipping his head upward. The tears almost seemed to spill out of him, to leak, more than be wept. “I apologize, I’m not usually so easily unmanned.”

“It is not unmanly for a man to cry sometimes,” Milslav said in a quiet voice.

As quickly as Florian had turned tearful, he turned furious, his face twisting so his lips pulled back in a snarl, his brows knit together at sharp angles. One hand shot out and seized a small pot, his arm pulling back as if to throw it at Milslav. Tissaia moved between them then two swift steps. He collected himself at once. “Melitele,” he murmured. “Meilitele.” It happened so fast Triss didn’t have a chance to do anything more than watch it happen in shock.

He turned from them, hands shaking. His fingers fumbling over the workspace for a moment before he covered his face with both hands. His shoulders slumped down at a defeated angle, his back rolling forward like an old man’s.

Florian straightened himself, sniffing a faint distracted sound as he got down a crystal jar full of something red-gold. Hands still shaking, he dipped his fingers into the potion and then pressed his fingertips to his tongue once and then twice in a quick practiced motion. He made a face of almost pained disgust in such a quick casual way that it avoided comment. His Lordship was fiddling with so many different things as if nothing had happened holding glass bottles to the light, examining dried plants, that it was just another thing he did. Triss would have thought it was some kind of narcotic, she had been taught the rich often indulged in thing to stave off their malaise except for the way he scooped two spoonfuls of honey into his mouth. The potion almost smelled of Golden Oriole. All of a sudden, things came together in a clatter. The too swift shift in emotion, the aether, the twinge of something not quite right in the way Florian moved, and the honey.

“Leave,” Florian said, voice sharp.

Triss looked at Tissaia who was already heading toward the door. She looked back to see Milslav move toward Florian, voice in a soft murmur and Florian, in turn, jerk his body in a vicious twist away from the hunter.

As soon as they were outside of the greenhouse, Tissaia grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her along. Tissaia paused and Triss looked away from her face to see the front entrance of the fort was being occupied by a cluster of villagers and that Blume fellow. Asa and Stribog fluttered over to them in as casual a way as two ravens could, head toward the back wall. “Something else is happening here,” Tissaia said. “I don’t like it. It stinks of human malaise.”

Triss almost hesitated to say it. What could she identify from a few minutes with a man and no examination? “I think His Lordship is trying to self-medicate something,” Triss said. “But I don’t know what it is. That potion he took smells of Golden Oriole, he could be trying to use the honey to cover the potions toxicity. Many plants and potions that wouldn’t bother us could cause serious problems for humans.”

"Hmm," Tissaia told her, looking like she both didn't want to know and she could help be curious.

They came to the back wall of the fort and Tissaia got down on one knee, her hands interlocked together in front of her. “I’ll boost you up. Whatever is going on with him is not our problem. We do the job we get paid. If Kolgrim gets himself killed we take his bag to a Viper Witcher and we move on.”

“Sentimental,” Triss smiled at her as she set her foot into the cradle of Tissaia’s hands.

Tissaia gave her a sharp look and hocked her up over the wall.


	5. To Wander Left Foot First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The longest chapter yet. This chapter is *chef's kiss* experimental. It skips around in time jumps and is meant to be a bit confused. The plot thickens just a little a bit as the boys see a cool stinky garden snake and Zola manages the boys.

Jaskier’s hand was warm in Filavandrel’s grip. Filavandrel smelled angry, like hot blood and the snap of flashing white teeth and of ash breathed in through the mouth. It hurt to sit too close to him, it hurt to be too far away. Under Jaskier’s skin there was a creeping crawling moving thing with hot blood and the snap of flashing white teeth and ash in the mouth. It was Other to him, that slick toothed thing with garish red on his hands and gristle pale eyes. It made him want to hunt, made him hungry for things he didn’t want and shouldn’t want. It turned his mind round and round to the past where he was human, to shadow where he ate his way into bursts of red mist and into the now where there was Filavandrel who smelled angry. He pressed against his cheeks with his fingertips to hold it in, pressed his knees against his belly.

Zola put out the fire with pile of dirt and stomped on it.

Zola was stronger than him. She curled her arms and held his weight with ease. He knew her smell. He knew the scent of the sweet animal softness of her curly hair, knew the scent of her sweat – the way it smelled light and then sweet and then sharp. She smelled like the pelt of a mother bear, like the clarity of a mountain tall enough to turn the air into glass, like falling asleep after a long day. When they slept Jaskier curled his body against hers so he was small, his arms around his body to press the Other in and his forehead pressed into her collar bone. Triss was familiar and Tissaia comforted with her instant authority, but Zola was the one who held his weight with an outstretched arm.

When Jaskier was young enough to measure his age on the fingers of one hand a tall woman with white hair came to where he used to live. Her limbs were long and lean with muscle and she had fascinated him, he measured the sinew of her knuckles with his fingertips and traced the scars on her forearms. His father had cried and his mother had cried. He didn’t have a nanny, he knew most of the other children of his parents’ friends had nannies, but he didn’t. His mother called him Jaskier and took him everywhere with her so he knew how to hold a woman’s hand. He took the tall woman with white hair into the room he shared with his parents – sleeping snug between them like he was a bird who might fly away in the night. He showed her his wooden sheep and his bed and the view from his window.

His mother dressed him warm with little boots and his father took a ring off his own finger and put it on the ribbon from his mother’s hair and put it around Jaskier’s neck. That was all Jaskier remembered. There were other half memories. He remembered the bodice of his mother’s dress with pearls sewn on but not her face. His father’s hair was chestnut brown and long, but Jaskier couldn’t remember if the man was tall or short. There had been music and kisses and warm biscuits from the oven and once- Once-

Jaskier wrapped his arms around Bjorn with care. The raven was very large, but he was still a bird and Jaskier was still very strong. Bjorn made a soft clickity clack sound back at him. He pressed his nose against Bjorn’s feathers. They smelled of blood and dust and Bjorn-Smell. Filavandrel didn’t like Bjorn, the raven made him angry. Everything made Filavandrel angry. He stunk of it. It was part of the scent of him.

“Don’t,” Filavandrel said, pushing at Jaskier’s arm. “He’s dirty.”

Jaskier didn’t understand where words came from, he didn’t understand words at all sometimes. There must be a place inside where words came from, a pitcher people carried inside them to pour words out of their mouth. When Filavandrel was asleep Jaskier would feed Bjorn with his fingers. Bjorn’s beak was large and sharp. Jaskier had seen Bjorn snap off an adder’s head with his beak. The head had twisted and snapped in the dirt. Triss looked at it and pressed her hand to a tree and bent over as she threw up on the shrubbery. Her vomit smelled of mushrooms and venison and mint. Tissaia had crushed the head under her heel and told Triss to toughen up. Tissaia had pulled Triss’ hair back away from her face and held it in a knot at the back of her head. 

There were caves under the School where Jaskier used to live. The walls of the cave were black as ash and the pools of water were blue. Alta had lined them up so Toma was at the front and Violi was at the back partway up the stairs, his class was large. Asai was after him and tucked her hands into the bottom of his tunic so the knuckle of her mittened hands pressed against the small of his back. The tea wasn’t agreeing with her and she had a hard time seeing sometimes. He was the second shortest in his class, the shortest was Toma which was why she got to stand in the front. He held Aphra under his coat to keep her warm.

Alta was broad shouldered and one of her legs was a silver and wood below the knee. She taught the acolytes who were almost ready to be witchers. He’d seen the girls – the strongest of the acolytes. He knew he was younger than he felt, but all of them know their chances. If they could survive to the Trials then the only thing to kill them would be a monster. A girl with red hair had died from drinking the tea - he didn’t remember her name, and Mia had fallen and hit her head last winter. Now there were fifteen of them. He wanted to make it to the Trials and survive. He was careful with himself, he was careful with Aphra. 

Meriwe was their instructor, she was always counting them and she always smelled like dried plants. One of her pointed ears had been torn up and stitched together oddly so her hair didn’t stay behind it. Meriwe let him braid back the hair on that side and sing to her, mostly songs he’d just made up. She said he had a good memory and sometimes he would go and help her and Triss work in the growing room. Out of his whole class he was the best at speaking Elder already and Meriwe and Triss spoke Elder to him all the time. Some of the sums for the potions he did in his head although he didn’t like maths as much as he liked languages. Some times while Meriwe lectured about plants he tucked his hand under the leather strap of Triss’ scabbard to help him pay attention.

Alta had been explaining something at the front of the line, Asai pressed her knuckles to the small of his back to get him to pay attention. He watched as Meriwe picked up Toma and tossed her into the hole in the ice. Toma’s raven shrieked and flew up, circling the cavern. The top of the water was still, it was still for a long time. Asai moved forward to pressed her body against his back and then Toma’s head was above water. The way she inhaled scared him, it didn’t sound human. Her hands scrabbled at the edge of the ice and she disappeared again. Her raven kept screaming and flapping around and around. Toma appeared again, let her lower body float and crawled onto the ice on her elbows. She was shaking so much it looked like she was having a fit like the girl with the red hair. Meriwe pulled her forward by the front of her tunic and took off her clothes so she could be wrapped in a blanket and carried off by one of the bigger girls.

“Hold your breath, float, and crawl,” Alta said and threw Tally into the hole in the ice. Tally went down with her raven into the water.

Jaskier kissed the top of Aphra’s head and sent her off to go perch and wait on a ledge. Tally might make it but her raven would die in the water, he was too small. Jaskier didn’t know what would happen to an acolyte if their raven died. He didn’t want Aphra to die. He liked her.

Filavandrel was smiling at Jaskier, combing his hair into dandelion fluff. _"Ess've vort shaente aen...evaux,"_ he said pointing at the horses snorting at the edge of the camp.

Jaskier sat up straighter. He didn’t know how anyone spoke but he could hum. He hummed a song about horses, the shape of them all at once delicate and frightful. He hummed a song about eating grass that nature grew without sowing or planting. That was what Meriwe had said. _Dana Meadbh makes the world full without sowing or planting._ He missed Meriwe. He thought something bad must have happened to her, happened to everyone. Zola was very nervous. She was going to take them into town to buy things and it was a dangerous thing to do. Most of the time Filavandrel and he didn’t go into town at all.

They were in the area of White Orchard, Filavandrel told him. Outside of the forest a wave of fruit trees stood like brides waiting to put on their white lace veils. The grass was green and thick, peppered in with flowers: he could see them, little buttercups and splatters of poppies, cloudy baby’s breath, and pink puffs of something he doesn’t know. Poppies had a lot of uses, Meriwe scored poppy bulbs with a little razor and told all the acolytes not to touch the white sap that bleed out of it. It made medicine for when the acolytes went to be Turned and when they broke their bones. Jaskier had thought that if turning was only like breaking a bone it couldn’t be too bad. He had broken his arm training and had cried but mostly because it had surprised him so much.

Turning was not like breaking a bone.

Zola tapped him on the top of his head. “Stay close, don’t wander off, no matter what you smell.”

“He won’t,” Filavandrel said and took his hand. Jaskier kissed his cheek, Filavandrel looked to see if Zola was watching or not and when he saw she was still packing he kissed Jaskier back.

Jaskier’s mother and father kissed his cheek and his head and his fingers. Meriwe didn’t kiss him and neither did any of the other witchers. He and Asai would kiss each other’s cheeks and he kissed Aphra and Bjorn all the time. Jaskier liked to kiss, it felt soft and like he was a friend. Only friends kissed each other.

When Jaskier was hefted up into Alta’s arms he wasn’t sure he liked it, it made him feel small. He shouted at the swing back and then remembered he should be holding his breath. He inhaled hard, his lungs hurting with it. For a moment he flew, weightless, wonderous. Then he was in the water and he turned into an animal. His body got away from him, a wild screeching thing that didn’t care about anything but not being in the water. It was so cold that the air in his lungs meant nothing, the movement of his body meant nothing. This was why everyone was so long under the ice, their body had been trying to decide if it was worth it to just die to stop the pain. All the things he told himself he would think of to make him strong, to make him swim up were gone: slipped from the numb fingers of his mind.

He had done endurance training before – they all had. He had been in the cold and to walk on Narrow Tom one foot in front of the other and to learn to hold up a sword. Then something shifted in him and he was able to think, the sensation of being torn apart was deadened. He let got of his big complicated thoughts and instead just focused on the sense of Being Alive, and moved his body toward Staying Alive. He turned his body into a board and floated to the surface. He put his forearm on the ice and pulled himself out again. Meriwe pulled him up and stripped him free of his wet clothes to wrap him in soft warm fleece and dry him off. Tissaia waited there, although he didn’t know her name then. She waited to carry him up but his body kept jerking. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t think.

Aphra flew over to perch on Merwe’s arm and push at his face with the side of his beak. Clemah, Meriwe’s raven prodded at Aphra until she had to mind her own space.

Asai wasn’t coming out of the water. Toma had taken a long time to come out, sometimes the acolytes took a long time to come out. He didn’t really notice the cold anymore, his body adjusting.

Asai had been under the water so long even he knew something was wrong. Alta picked up the next acolyte. Asai was still down there, she had trouble seeing sometimes. Sometimes she needed help. He weaseled his way out of Meriwe’s grasp and ran for the hole in the ice. Maybe if she just felt the vibration in the water she would know which way was up and bob to the surface.

He shoved his arm into the water. He thought he had been used to the cold, but sticking his arm back in hurt so much his whole mind turned wordless and soundless, all broken down into reaction. Everything from top to bottom was white and !!!!!. Jaskier screeched with his neck curled back and his mouth wide open. He could not have avoided the sound, the pain was too much. Asai hadn’t taken his hand. She was still down there. He bent his head to dive back in but Tissaia was there, scooping him up. He couldn’t stop screaming, something high and wormy to match the pain in his arm. She took him away while Alta threw the next acolyte into the hole in the ice.

He didn’t stop screaming until Tissaia wrapped him in another blanket and then laid on him with her weight pinned him to the bed. Even with his backward and forward mind he couldn’t remember much more than the screaming and how big she had seemed. A mountain.

“Stop it. It’s done. She wasn’t strong enough,” Tissaia told him.

“I loved her!” Jaskier howled back.

Tissaia’s face went tight and her mouth tilted sideways. “This is the truth whether you like it or not. Sometimes the best thing a flower can do is die. If an acolyte is too weak to survive the training than they will be torn apart by monsters that do not love any thing about her but her screams and her agony.”

Jaskier tried to cover his ears.

She pulled his hands away by his wrists and shook him. “Listen to me! Her death was quick and it was relatively painless. There was no dishonor in it. She wasn’t strong enough. She would have been sent out and stoned or eaten or burnt or broken and starved to death at the bottom of a cliff! She would have suffered and the people she couldn’t protect would have suffered. We must protect the world from forces powerful enough to destroy it. We must be strong or accept our fates.”

“But I loved her!” he tried again.

“And I’m sure that brought her great comfort. It’s more than most of us have.”

Filavandrel held onto his wrist so he wouldn’t fall off Clip. He pressed his cheek to Filavandrel’s shoulder. The elf rode with the confidence of a princeling, Jaskier just held on. They had been trained not to hold onto the rider in front of them in case injury or clumsiness dragged them both from the horse, instead they were meant to hold onto the saddle. Jaskier did not hold onto the saddle, he held onto comfort.

They stood at the crossroads for a moment looking back and forth and then turned toward the woods again. “We’re going to Brair,” Zola told them. “It’s stupid to go back into White Orchard.”

“It’s stupid to go into a dh’oine town,” Filavandrel said.

“I’m not arguing,” Zola muttered. “But it’s what we have.”

Wrapping his arms around Filavandrel’s chest, Jaskier got up on one knee to try and get a better view of where they were going. Filavandrel tapped his arm, impatient, “Sit down before you fall off.” He sat back down and hummed into the elf’s shoulder the rest of the way there. 

“Where are we going?” Filavandrel asked.

“I smell pigs and people this way, I know there’s another village in the woods. They had a problem with nekkers a coulple years ago,” Zola said.

Filavandrel sat up straighter. “Were you already on the Path?”

“Sort of,” Zola over at them, taking a moment to reach across and ruffle Jaskier’s hair. “Vea told me about it. She likes White Orchard. Beginning witchers follow the Pontar river to Oxenfurt and then back again for wintering up. The professors there know to expect us. Some of the older witchers go there too. They’ll pay you just to tell them how many swans you saw on the river or for monster bones. If you’re ever in trouble and you need money, go to Oxenfurt. From there you can usually afford a boat back to the Blue Mountains. Once you find another raven school witcher they’ll help you on the journey along the range until you get back to the fortress.”

“I don’t know if that plan will work anymore,” Filavandrel said, angry, always angry.

Zola looked at him, but didn’t flinch, her eyes blinking slowly. She smelled sad. “Perhaps,” she said. “I hope you know that I would always do my best to help you. Just you wait, you’ll be eating your words when I carry you in on my back.”

Hand tightening on Jaskier’s, Filavandrel said nothing. The ride the rest of the way into town was quiet. A couple of children appeared first, leaping out of the woods in a chase with sticks in their hands. The horses weren’t going fast enough to put the children in trouble, but everyone was surprised except Clip and Clop who huffed in amusement, Prima nickering in curiosity behind them. Both the children wore big tunics the girl had long black hair, the boy had big pale eyes. Jaskier tried to kneel up to look at them, but Filavandrel knocked him in the knee with one fist.

“Are those swords?” the girl asked, pointing at Zola.

“Yes.” She seemed so grown up and serene all of the sudden.

“Delightsome!” the girl shouted, punching her brother. “I told you, Dune! Girls could have swords!” 

“Shut up, Alys!” the boy shouted back. And then they were gone back in the woods. Jaskier watched after them, kneading at Filavandrel’s shirt with his hands.

Hovel was a happy village in the middle of the forest, small but well tended, mostly little homes. The walls were laid in posts, not very tall. It looked mostly for show as much as anything. There were children taken turns throwing things into the well, Jaskier waved at them and they waved back. 

“Hullo, travelers,” a man said walking up to Zola. “Interesting eyes.”

“Thank you,” Zola said. Filavandrel’s hand went so tight Jaskier’s fingers went tingly. “We were looking for Briar.”

“You ended up in Hovel. We’ve just been formed by petition to Vizima." He looked at the three of them. “You know a woman names Vea?”

“I may have heard the name,” Zola demurred.

“I met her once when I lived in Briar,” the man told him. “My name is Volker, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Now how can we help you? It’s certainly not the best of times to be a witcher in these parts.”

“Just looking to buy some supplies,” Zola said in that same serene tone as before.

“Most folks go to White Orchard for that,” the man said.

“Like you said. It’s certainly not the best of times to be a witcher in these parts,” Zola told him.

“Ahh,” the man replied, sort of nodding. Jaskier wondered if she had spoken in a code. “We’d help you but we’re just starting out. We couldn’t offer you more than a place to rest your head. I won’t lie and say it wouldn’t be a pleasure to offer you hospitality to spite the baronet if for no other reason.”

“We might take you up on that,” Zola agreed. “Have there been a lot of troubles with the baronet?”

The man’s scent tilted into anger. “Aye, you could say that. Enough for our petition for freedom to be accepted. I’d usually be more discreet, I figure it wouldn’t do you any harm to be forewarned. The baronet has behaved in a way that is unjust, destroying crops, killing his subjects who didn’t give him proper honor or who spoke out against his behavior. Lord Ignatius knows that the power he holds belongs to his wife’s family and he is over eager to prove his authority. And his youngest son is just as bad. The only one he’ll listen to is his son Florian but even then Florian must be careful not to overstep. He’s as much a slave to his father’s expectations as the rest of us are to the baronet’s will. It will be a relief when he takes over. I honestly suggest you get your supplies, rest the night here and then leave in the morning.”

Zola looked tense. “Where would you suggest I go for supplies then? We need fabric, leather, some twine – basics.”

“You’ll be wanting Widow Vildenvert most likely. She has a farm off that way. Three children on her own, she could use the coin. Her husband was such a good well-spoken man before his… accident up at the fortress.” 

“Isn’t that the way of things,” Zola said, that serene way of speaking like she was saying more than one thing at once. “Which way to the Vildenvert farm?”

The man pointed down the road. “Follow the river, you’ll find it faster than you think.”

When they were far enough away Filavandrel whispered to Zola. “What was that?”

“I’m not sure,” she murmured back. “I’ve never heard of Hovel, but then I haven’t heard of a lot of places. I’m concerned about what we heard. If the local lord is looking to throw his weight around we’re right in the middle of things. We can always get more money if we’re alive. We can’t if we’re dead.”

Jaskier worked hard in his lessons. Grand Master Borch smiled at them where they were all sat on the floor with their legs criss crossed. In Jaskier’s lap, Aphra perched close, picking at the ties on his tunic. “Hello, everyone.”

“Hello, Grand Master Borch,” they all replied. 

He clapped his hands and smiled at them, his raven was ruffled and rugged and made a sound like a laugh. “Today we’re going to learn about manticores. It’s important to be prepared little acolytes. It’s not just your life this knowledge will protect, but the life of the peoples living on this world. The responsibility is yours, to carry on your shoulders. So what are we learning about today?”

“Manticore!” the acolytes called out today.

“Very good,” Grand Master Borch smiled at them. “And why do we want to learn about them?”

“To survive and to protect people!” they replied. 

Jaskier pressed his cheek to Zola’s leg. The rush of farm smells were noisy, a clattering in his nose, in his head. Her fingernails scratched careful patterns in his hair. 

“I’m left enough alone,” Widow Vildenvert. Her hair was black and white in strips. “No one dares get so close to that cursed crypt with the spirits dwelling inside it. It’s not pleasant to live so close to something unholy, but it stays in its place and we stay in ours. Even more than that. They’re all ashamed that they didn’t do anything about my poor Eddie. It’s the way of things.”

This was taking forever, he wanted to go outside and play with the chickens. Filavandrel was looking over the table humming at things like he had a say in what they were getting, it was boring. A boy ran into the house with a snake in his hand - it was the boy from before with the sister. Jaskier perked up. He wanted to go look at the snake. It was green and smelled interesting. “Oh,” the boy said, looking at him and Filavandrel. “My name’s Dune. Who’re you? Are you from White Orchard?”

Widow Vildenvert stood up and shrieked. Jaskier’s grip tightened around Zola’s leg in alarm. “Dune! Get that snake out of here!”

“But mum!” the boy said.

“Dune!” the lady said louder. “Out! And go fetch some salt from the back! Before you come back in.”

Jaskier pulled on Zola’s hand and she sighed. “Alright, the two of you go and play. Just don’t go far. Triss and Tissaia have to find us by scent. I don’t want them have to trek the wide world to find you again.”

He took hold of Filavandrel’s hand to pull them out to the yard where Dune was talking to another boy with the same black hair.

“This is my little brother Bastien,” Dune said. Bastien was little, he was big and square. “He’s stupid right now, but he’ll get smart later when he’s older.”

“Mum said not to say that!” Bastien said and punched him.

“Then stop being stupid, stupid!” Dune said and punched him back.

Jaskier held out his hands for the snake. Filavandrel leaned forward. “He wants to hold the snake.”

“Okay, but remember it’s mine first,” Dune said. “That’s the law!”

Jaskier nodded, holding his hands out. It curled up in his palm really small and then started wiggling. He showed Filavandrel the snake, it had a tiny head and smelled interesting.

“Yuck,” Filavandrel said and pet it gently with one finger. “Where did you find it?”

“Out in the field,” Dune told them. “They sleep in the grass but the chickens are good at finding them, you just have to grab them before they’re eaten. Mum never lets me keep them.”

“Can I hold the snake?” Filavandrel asked, holding his hands palms up.

Jaskier set the snake in his hands carefully and then kissed his cheek.

“Boys can’t kiss boys!” Dune said loud enough to surprise Jaskier.

“Why not?” Filavandrel asked.

“I-“ Dune blinked at him. “Because everyone says so!”

“Maybe here, no one else cares,” Filavandrel said. “Jaskier’s my friend and I’ll kiss him if I want to!”

“But-” Dune said. “The baronet doesn’t allow it.”

“What do you care about the baronet?” Filavandrel said. Jaskier could tell Filavandrel was going to say something about the boy’s dead dad and stepped on his foot. 

Dune’s eyes started tearing up anyway and Bastien looked back and forth between them in panic and confusion. Jaskier darted forward to wrap him around around Dune and hugged him tight and Filavandrel gave him back the snake. He could tell his friend felt bad about it, but he wasn’t the sort of person to apologize.

“Maybe I don’t care what the baron said,” Dune snuffed into Jaskier’s shirt. 

Filavandrel patted at him. “It’s okay. Sometimes people kiss their friends. Jaskier can’t talk so that’s how he says he loves me.”

Disengaging, Jaskier stepped back to take hold of Filavandrel’s hand.

“Alright,” Dune said, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Are you guys stay here tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Filavandrel said. “Zola is the boss of us. Or at least she thinks she is. I’m in charge of myself and Jaskier is my friend.”

“Run!” Jaskier shouted at Filavandrel. He was holding the gate closed with his shoulder, but he was small and the door wouldn’t hold. The red sky was reflected in the elf’s eyes. The ground was covered in blood and crushed flowers and the crunch of small bones.

“I’m not a coward!” Filavandrel said. “I won’t leave you.”

“I’ll be right behind you!” Jaskier promised him. “Go on!”

He held the gate, his feet sliding in the mud, his teeth grit until he fell back, tiny bird bones pricking at the palms of his hands. There was a figure in the doorway.

It was Asai, she hadn’t drowned. She had swam and swam and swam and ended up here. Her body curled forward, her bones shifting and cracking under her skin. _She’s Turning,_ he thought. _She’s Turning._

Asai reached out to him with her mittens and her wide, wide smile full of slick teeth. “Sometimes the best thing a flower can do is die,” she told him. His hands fit into hers so easily, he tried to speak, but his mouth was full of ichor. He coughed it up, inky bubbles sticking to his lips and cheeks like kisses. Kisses, kisses, kisses. Only friends kissed each other.

“Let’s go home,” he told her, squeezing her hands. The words were wet in his mouth.

“This is home.”

“We need to go home, Asai. We’re going to learn to save people,” he told her.

“All we’re going to learn to do is die. The only way out is to eat your way out.”

That didn’t seem right, his nose tickled from the ichor pouring out of it.

“I think you must know better than me, because you’ve been here so long but I don’t think that sounds right. My head hurts and my heart hurts and I don’t like it here,” he pulled her closer, looking around nervously. Sometimes there were drowners or hags near water. There was movement in the corner of his vision a sound that couldn’t come from his friend.

He looked up at the Other standing in front of him, his hands held so carefully in its talons. “You’re not Asai. You’re me.”

“Not yet.”

“I don’t want to stop being me,” he told it, head craned back to look into its face all round and dark like an empty moon. Its wings curled around him like a curtain.

“You won’t be.”

He knew if he took his hands away they’d stop being friends and it would chase him. He was frightened. He didn’t have any potions or weapons or signs.

It touched its claws to his small face, all the points of it clustered together in a too small space. “You’re too giving. You’ll give yourself away, tear yourself into little pieces for other people to swallow down. You’ll make your kindness a habit that you spend on others until you’re a hollow in the rock. I’ll make my nest there and come out when I’m least expected. I’ll come out and wear your hollow skin.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what any of that means.

It put its mouth on his mouth. It’s not a kiss. It’s not like a kiss at all.

 _Help me,_ he thought. _Help me._ He didn’t want this. He pulled one hand out of one talon and punched it in the face, he clawed at its ears, its eyes, its throat. _Help me._

“Sometimes the best thing a flower can do it die. It’s better to do it here than torn apart out there. Stay in here with me.”

_I don’t want this! I don’t want it!_

A whirlwind tore around him suddenly, round and round. The sky shook itself red. The thunder called out that it was the silver sword and the fist of steel. Jaskier gripped the silver sword with both hands and swung it as well as he could. The Other screamed at the silver, flustering back. He ran from it, putting the sword over his shoulders like a yoke. The Other tried to grab him with its talons, but when its skin touched the silver it screamed and had to let go. 

Maybe the best thing a flower could do was die, but he wasn’t dead until he was dead.

The hayloft was small and they were all shoved together shoulder to shoulder. Jaskier wasn’t sure how they got there. His mind had been going back and forth again. Filavandrel was lying next to him with his feet shoved against Jaskier’s legs.

 _"Dearme,"_ Zola said, snuggling down in the hay so her back fit easier against Tissaia's.

 _"Dearme,"_ Triss yawned.

 _"Dearme,"_ Tissaia murmured.

There was a long pause in which they all heard the sounds of the mice in the hay, the rustling of Jaskier and Filavandrel arranging themselves around each other. They tangled their limbs until Filavandrel felt safe and Jaskier felt quiet. Tissaia snuffled and rolled over to face Jaskier. She sighed and lifted her arm so he could snuggle against her front, Filavandrel sighed and scooted closer again.

“Go to sleep,” Tissaia whispered.

 _"Dearme,"_ Filavandrel whispered back.

\---  
Jaskier. Caemm 'ere, taedh. - Jaskier. Come here, bard.

Ess've vort shaente aen...evaux. - Sing me a song about horses.

Dearme - Good night/Sleep well


	6. Words Tangled in Silver and Gold

Tissaia woke about twelve times in the night. Every time Jaskier or Filavandrel twitched in the night she was awake, flipping her body up to curl over them. No one was taking them from her, they were just kicking in their sleep like puppies. Eventually, Zola made an irritated sound and lifted Tissaia up and over to switch their positions in the pile. In the morning she woke up as well-rested as she ever did since they left Praenuntius. 

Triss was sitting all curled up to the side chewing on a nail. Tissaia wished she practiced some digression, but then all of them could smell how anxious she was all the time anyway so why bother with stoicism. The boys were huddled together so that Filavandrel could comb down Jaskier’s hair with a careful hand. Someone was missing. She looked up at the rafters overhead, Hesta was gone from the line of sleeping ravens.

She stood in an instant, stumbling to get her footing in the deep hay. Stribog woke with a cry of confusion and alarm, startling Aphra’s from where she’d tucked her head against Bjorn’s impressive girth, and setting Ada to flying in the holding circle the ravens had trained into them. With an Attend command, Triss called Ada to her to soothe the surprised bird. Bjorn made an annoyed pecking motion at Stribog – the giant raven lacking the training the rest of them did – but Aphra muttered at him until the great bird settled down into a pout to be preened.

“Where’s Zola?” Tissaia asked then whistled Attend at her raven, holding her arm out for Stribog to land and move to her shoulder.

Jaskier pointed outside.

“She’s doing something secret,” Filavandrel said. He wasn’t one to carry tales in Tissaia’s sparse experience, but he also didn’t particularly care enough about any of them but Jaskier to be discreet. 

At a crisp but controlled pace, nothing at all like a jog, Tissaia went to go look for Zola. She knew how to do a search and she knew Zola’s scent. Hovel was surrounded by a short fence that would do almost nothing against anything but small children and unenterprising deer – but it wasn’t nothing. Hovel really was what it called itself. A cluster of houses, a well, a couple pigs, and some dozing chickens. Zola’s scent was still distinct in the air. It wasn’t that heavy sour smell of human musk or the heavy hormonal stink of animals, it was dry and rich, but more than human. 

Zola had left the cluster of houses to walk into the forest. The path was clear enough, Zola hadn’t been trying to hide where she was going which didn’t really seem to be anywhere. It would almost seem Zola had left to relieve herself except Zola kept walking back and forth like she was looking for something. Normally, Tissaia would leave the other witcher to it, but she was too on edge. Everything felt sinister. Tissaia kept Stribog on her shoulder, close enough her cheek rested against his chest when she turned her head.

She saw Zola finally, sitting in a little clearing bent over something. She ran up, heart thrumming. "What are you doing? You just left! You can leave without telling anyone where you're going!"

“I just needed to stitch something quickly. I’m getting bigger, it was starting to hurt,” Zola said and pressed her lips together. 

Tissaia looked down at the curved band Zola had laid out over her legs. “Oh.”

Zola looked away, her shoulder tense, her mouth pinching from side to side. 

Sitting down next to her, Tissaia interlocked her fingers over her knees. She sunk her heels into the soft grass, looking away. The violet morning hung soft as ermine fur over them in the sky. The dark and verdant forest stretched out before them, little pale furred mice and soft creeping things pattered their way through dissolving leaves “Sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“It’s okay,” Zola told her and started stitching again. “You’ve been scared since we left.”

Puffing up, Tissaia snapped at her, “I’m not scared!”

Zola gave her a long look. She wanted to learn to stare like that, it was impressive.

She’d never admit it to Triss or the boys, but she was a little scared. She had no idea what to do. This wasn’t a case of making it to the Pontar and following its banks. They needed things she had no idea how to get, everything was a jumble of prophecies and Signs in her head. Zola should be the leader, everyone liked her best. 

With a tug and a snap of teeth on the thread, Zola finished the chest band. “Worst time for my bosom to suddenly decide to grow,” she said. “It had months to get bigger and it waited until I had two little boys to chase around, I couldn’t breathe.”

Tissaia winced in sympathy. Hopefully, she wouldn’t get any bigger than she was now, some of the Raven witchers didn’t. At least they didn’t have to worry about the monthly blood anymore, once of feeling turned inside out was enough for Tissaia.

Zola was always so strong, she always won at wrestling until Alta had to put weights on her. She carried the boys and the supplies, and she didn’t complain. Now Zola’s shoulders sloped down, the back of her neck a downward curve. “We’re still children, aren’t we?”

Tissaia didn’t feel like a child but wasn’t that one of the hallmarks of childhood: feeling so grown up all the time and only being held back by not being able to reach the top shelf. She breathed in and then breathed out. “If we lived in a kinder world it would matter. We can’t face down a griffin and call king’s x because we’re scared. Someone tried to destroy the School of the Ravens. We have to keep Filavandrel alive long enough to he can save his people and delay the end of the world. It doesn’t matter if we’re children or not, we’re witchers.”

“What if we can’t?” Zola asked. Her voice twisted into something that sounded too dismal.

“We aren’t what we’re going to be yet. We just have to keep going, keep becoming. The only difference between childhood and adulthood is height and experience. They sat quietly together, the sun was rising in gradual shifts until the world lost its softness to something sharp and energetic. The song birds in the trees began to wake and compete with each other for who could be the shrillest. Squirrels became to chitter and rattle around in their holes before launching themselves across branches. The world was lurching out of bed and a decision had to be made.

“Go make sure no one’s looking,” Zola told her, elbowing her in the side.

Tissaia did as she asked standing to go face away and scan out across the woods. She’d hear someone coming before they arrived, but it was as good an excuse to give Zola privacy as anything. There was rustling and ruffling behind her, before a quick leaf crunch of sound before Zola popped her in the back of the head with her old chest band. Tissaia’s nostrils flared, her chin tipped down. “You better run.”

Zola just laughed at her, taking off through the trees. It felt good to run like this, smooth powerful movements she felt from the top of her head to the pads of her toes. They circled the town once for the fun of it before jogging back into the barn.

As if she’d been poised on a spring, Triss jumped to her feet as soon as they were through the door. “You were gone for a long time,” she said.

She felt bad for leaving Triss alone with the boys. That wasn’t a very thoughtful thing to do. “Zola just had to take care of something,” Tissaia told her. “Sorry, it took so long.”

With her usual straightforwardness, Zola made a bit of a discreet motion with the bundled-up chest band in her hand. For a moment Triss looked confused and then nodded in understanding, she’d always been intelligent.

“We need to council together,” Tissaia said, trying to sound like Grand Master Borch or like Alta or any of the other witchers who always knew what to do. “The morning has come. We need to decide if we’re staying or leaving.”

Triss looked at her for a moment, her arms around herself and then nodded. “Everyone’s waking up. If we need to leave the sooner the better.”

“I think we leave,” Tissaia said. “It’s just too much risk. This is growing too complicated.”

“We haven’t officially taken the contract,” Zola said as she shuffled things around in her pack. “We should only get involved in politics if it’s to do something to prevent the destruction of this world. He’s one witcher, and if he has any sense he’ll take a Trial by Ordeal and just win his way out of this mess.”

Filavandrel leaned forward on his knees, “Not that you care about our opinions, but those d’hoine are going to kill that witcher. I don’t know that it’s our problem, but it’s also not honorable to do nothing. The man we met in Hovel said the baronet is violent and cruel, yet despite his behavior he hasn’t been stripped of his position. With no fear of a higher power and with those most disgruntled with his rule removed to reduce pressure from below, the baronet is even more dangerous. If we are to offer aid we should do it quickly and depart.” The princeling leaned back again with that sharp look to him, that lift of his chin, that meant he was hiding his anxiety under his contempt.

Jaskier raised his hand.

“And,” Filavandrel continued. “Jaskier thinks we should rescue the witcher because of course, he does.”

How Filavandrel knew that with Jaskier’s silence, Tissaia had no idea. But if anyone was going to know it would be Filavandrel. Jaskier was smiling in Jaskier-y approval so who could argue.

“You have a lot to say on the matter,” Zola said.

“I’m a prince of a great house, trained to be an advisor to my elder brother. You lot might be lost when it comes to politics, but I grew up with them,” Filavandrel told them. “When it comes to slaying monsters I defer to you, but on affairs of state I seem to know the most.”

It was difficult not to pop Filavandrel in the forehead. Tissaia stopped and inhaled. Filavandrel smelled like the sharp acidic scent of anxiety and the buzzy thunder and lightning smell of tension.

“I think Lord Florian is being poisoned!” Triss said a little too loud. “I can’t be sure until I perform some kind of examination. But the mood swings I think I may have detected slight muscle tremors, and the medicine he was taking smelled like Golden Oriole. We should help him. We’re supposed to stop the world from being destroyed, from people dying. Everyone says Lord Florian will be a good baronet and that his brother is worse than there father. If we let Florian die, the region may destabilize.”

“If Florian’s being poisoned,” Filavandrel said, looking more interested now. “Then there’s a chance this is some kind of power grab. Our witcher friend in the dungeon is likely to become collateral damage.”

“There’s the Trial by Ordeal,” Tissaia said, but she could hear in her own voice that after all the bits of evidence they had put together that the baronet wasn’t exactly trustworthy. “That’s an ancient law of the land.”

“Would the baronet keep the law?” Filavandrel asked. “Would his guards and subjects witness against him? He’s killed his subjects and destroyed their crops. Among numerous other offenses.” Last night Filavandrel had plenty to say about the particular offense he had suffered when Jaskier had been told by some local boy not to kiss the prince’s cheek. Tissaia _wondered why._ The princeling still hunched himself around his pain like he was protecting some tender place, and the tenderest place of all was Jaskier. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t take the risk of Witcher Kolgrim’s life if he’s transporting sword diagrams,” Triss said.

“What are sword diagrams?” Filavandrel perked up, his eyes sharp for being so young.

“Sometimes someone will design a sword for a witcher, shaped to slick the head off a griffin or a particularly useful discovery of runes,” Zola said. “They’re particularly one of a kind.”

Filavandrel nodded like he was older and wiser than all of them. Tissaia couldn’t wait until he grew up and grew less obnoxious. He didn’t even know what a sword diagram was a moment ago. Jaskier wasn’t any help either, after the boy had given his two orens he’d become distracted petting Bjorn. “Don’t,” Filavandrel said, knocking Jaskier’s hand away from Bjorn out of habit – not even looking. “He’s dirty.”

Jaskier just knit his brow at the princeling and deliberately patted Bjorn on the head which didn’t do any good to any of the assembled party.

Tissaia let out a stuttered sigh. “Alright. Fine. We split up again. Zola and the boys see about that contract and finding the boy while you’re at it. Jaskier has a nose like a hound. Demand someone go with you. The boy’s mother, the father’s the one who’s making the trouble. The mother won’t have pride. She’ll just want her son.”

Zola nodded, shifting her weight to the center.

Bracing Triss with a hand to the shoulder, Tissaia nodded to the witcher, “Triss and I will go and talk to Florian about whether or not he’s being poisoned.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Florian said, his voice too high.

“Yes,” Milslav said. “He’s being poisoned by something.”

Florian was in another set of fine clothes – how many did the man need? – and Milslav was hovering like a shadow. There was a tension that had been in the greenhouse when they arrived there, a techy sort of misery like a quarreling partnership. 

“Something to cause madness,” Tissaia said. “On it’s way to tear you apart from the inside.”

Somehow Florian managed to get even tenser than before. 

“Who would benefit the most from you losing your senses?” Tissaia asked.

The two men were silent for a long moment, Florian staunchly fiddling with his little bottles and Milslav staring a hole in his back. Finally, Milslav spoke. “Lord Lavalles is the heir, he’s very popular with the villagers and the neighboring nobles. He has ideas that would make the White Orchard even more successful. If someone didn’t want him to inherit then poisoning him so he appeared mad would disqualify him from inheriting. The title would go to his brother, who is the sort of fool who would give himself to any flattery that presented itself.”

The stench of intrigue indeed.

“You have the right idea with Golden Oriole,” Triss said, stepping forward. At Florian’s surprised look she continued. “I’m familiar with the smell of it. I’ve made it myself a few times. But it’s not meant to be taken as medicine, it’s too strong. Especially for a human.” 

If possible, Florian’s shoulders slumped further, “It’s a modified recipe. Not as strong as what you might use, I don’t know what else to do. I’ve been hoping the honey would take care of the toxicity.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Triss allowed. “But flawed. Do you know what the poison might be?”

Florian shook his head. “I eat from the same charger as the rest of the table, I drink from the same pitcher. I don’t drink or eat anything I don’t see made myself.”

Tissaia gestured at her fellow witcher. “My companion Triss is very gifted. She can perform an examination on you. Our herbalists have to be well trained on a variety of toxics by necessity.”

“I don’t need help from a child,” Florian snarled at them suddenly.

“Good,” Tissaia said. “We aren’t children. We’re witchers.” She for a moment she contemplated forming Axii, her signs were powerful, but this man already had his feelings wrenched around enough, he wouldn’t thank her.

“Florian,” Milslav said, voice tuned quiet. “They offering you help for free, please take it. I’m worried about you.”

“Nothing’s for free,” Florian said, voice tight. “This greenhouse isn’t free, this position isn’t free, keeping you isn’t free.” Then with just as much speed the rage went out of Florian.

Florian dipped his finger into the little crystal vial and then pressed his fingertip to his tongue in a quick practiced motion. He made a face in such a quick casual way that it almost avoided notice though she knew what she looking at. Now she knew the truth of it, the potion did smell of Golden Oriole.

“You’re right in a manner of speaking,” Tissaia said. “The world has a habit of wanting things to turn out equal. Witchers don’t get involved in politics, it isn’t our place and it only tangles in on itself. In this case it is a preventative measure. Your father is a bad leader and your brother is worse by all accounts. You are the best choice to stabilize this region. Stable regions are less likely to have monsters and the monsters they have tend to be taken care of faster. In payment we expect you to live long enough to become the lord of White Orchard.”

Milslav blinked at them for a moment before his face relaxed with a simple gratitude that fit what Tissaia knew of the hunter.

"Are you sure?" Milslav said sharply, his arms dropping from where they had been crossed in front of his chest.

"Who else are you to ask for help?" Tissaia said. “And since we have a skilled herbalist here already.”

"I'm not a healer," Triss said as a warning, the iron weight of Alta in her tone. 

Florian's face pulled into something too flexible, too human. Something flickering between the fury of a trapped animal and the peace that comes the moment before death. "I'm not a healer either," Florian told her. He pressed a hand to his forehead for a brief moment looking unbearably tired for a moment. "I'm just making do with what I have. You can be more helpful to me than I can be to myself."

While Triss arranged Florian to go through the exam, Tissaia moved to the side next to Milslav to try and look like she knew what was going on. “How long has this been going on?”

“That we realized?” Milslav said, most of his attention on Triss having Florian follow her finger with his eyes and then checking the lordling’s nailbeds. “A little over a month, it’s been getting worse every day.”

“How well have you been able to watch his back?” she asked.

For a moment Milslav bristled before he got himself under control. “You lot really are straightforward to a fault. As well as I’ve been able. I’m limited somewhat as to where I can be for extended periods. I’ve only been to his room a few times.”

She bet he had. “Did you notice anything odd? You lordling seems to have a better head on his shoulders than most, but he’s still who he is.”

Triss had Florian try to touch his own nose with his eyes closed and his finger ended up in the middle of his cheek. That had to be a sign of something, right? It seemed that Florian realized it was as well if the way he had to take several calming breaths was any indication.

Milslav’s hands tightened and then loosened, his arms crossing again over his chest.

“I heard that certain pairings are not as freely permitted here as they are in other places,” Tissaia said with all of the limited discretion she had.

“Hmm,” Milslav said, his eyes on Triss who was more focused now, her fingers feeling under Florian’s chin.

Trying hard not to roll her eyes - _what was it with all these clingy men?_ \- Tissaia spoke more plainly. “If someone is after you and Florian than the two of you are going to have to be a great deal more discreet.” 

Florian coughed and turned abruptly to face her. “What are you talking about?”

“Witchers have excellent noses,” Tissaia said. “Triss smelled your Golden Oriole across the green house.”

Looking back and forth between Milslav and Tissaia, Florian turned bright red.

“We don’t care,” Triss said quickly. “And we don’t mean to probe. It’s just that if someone is after you and if the two of you can’t keep your hands off each other, then it’s only logical that that might cause some potential problems for you.”

“That is none of your business,” Florian snapped at them. “Children have no business sniffing around!”

Tissaia tried to imitate Zola’s stare. “Believe me, sir. If we could avoid smelling it we would. We can smell every man who didn’t clean his hands after squatting in the woods and every woman on her moon. If we had any choice not to smell the nonsense the two of you are indulging in, we would gladly avoid it. If the two of you are being this slack in hygene then someone else will discover it.”

Milslav had covered his eyes, smelling a sharp mixture of embarrassed and angry. “How old are the two of you?”

“Old enough,” Tissaia snapped.

“So children,” Milslav answered. He scrubbed his hand over his face. “I wish you hadn’t said it but I see your point. How strong is your nose?”

“People are filthy,” Triss answered. “You might think you have some idea. You have no idea.”

“Please can we talk about something else,” Florian said, sounding strangled.

"Yes, please,” Triss said. “I figured out what the poison is. Its mercury poisoning.” That was a good trait in a herbalist. No time wasted with a dramatic reveal. 

Milslav let out a sharp breath of relief.

"Have you been taking mercury?" Triss asked.

"I'm not even sure what that is," Florian admitted.

"Quick silver, or maybe silver water?” Triss said. “It looks like liquid metal? Or- or it might be something that’s tinted blue-gray. A tincture or pills?”

“I have a few blue jerkins?” Florian said, eyes moving back and forth. “One of my books has a blue cover. I haven’t seen any liquid metal.”

“Do you chew on things?” Triss asked. “To help you think I mean. Do you tend to put things in your mouth?”

Florian gestured around himself. “I’m an herbalist. If I put things in my mouth I would have been dead years ago.”

Triss closed her eyes, brow furrowing, trying to think.

Making the sign of Axii, Tissaia unfurled her will to Triss. “Don’t overthink. You know, Triss. Focus your mind.”

“You don’t have to ingest mercury,” Triss said, the tension pulling her shoulders upward sloughed off of her in a sigh. “It could be in a cream or soap, or even something you eat or drink out of. It’s most dangerous as a vapor though. The stomach protects from some of its effects, inhaling is more dangerous.”

“I don’t know,” Florian said, hands still moving frantically. “I don’t know.”

Straightening, Milslav gave Florian a steadying kind of look. “I’ll clean out his room tonight. We’ll replace everything, oils, soap, cups, incense. We’ll think of a reason why. Now that we know what it is, is there a cure?”

“I know there’s a treatment for it. A medicine,” Triss said, her face pulled tight. “I’ve seen it made as part of a treatment for a witcher. I don’t know the recipe by memory, but I know it exists. It can take a long time to work and will have to be taken regularly.”

That wasn’t quite as promising. “We can’t go back to the School.”

“His life is in danger,” Milslav snapped.

“The recipe will also be in Oxenfurt,” Triss said quickly. “As soon as we’re done here we can head there, I can get the recipe and start the process, Oxenfurt has an excellent alchemy lab. I’m sure there might even be someone there who can make you a reliable supply.”

Florian slumped in relief. “I always wanted to go visit Oxenfurt again. Father said it was a waste to make the trip.”

“Who knows what the future will hold,” Triss said a little awkwardly and patted him on the arm.

“Since we have that sorted,” Tissaia told the assembled party. “I don’t suppose we can have a word with your Witcher?”

“Yes,” Florian said looking both tenser and more relieved. “Milslav. Take them to the window of the dungeon. It’s not safe to try to take them through the fort proper.”

Triss and Tissaia followed Milslav out and around the back of the place, the hunter’s mouth pressed into a stoic line. “You’re really going to be able to help him?”

“It will take time,” Triss said. “It’s important to manage expectations and his moods, but yes. I’ve seen a witcher with much worse poisoning and she got better.”

“How would a witcher get poisoning from liquid silver?” he asked. “From making silver swords?”

Tissaia wanted to gesture for Triss to avoid any questions, but she was behind her.

“No, there was a mage that used azogue in making decorative candles,” Triss said. “By the time the witcher had escaped his grasp she had inhaled enough mercury to kill a human.” 

“You don’t consider yourselves to be human then?”

Tissaia saw a window half-buried and moved toward it to cut off any more of Milslav’s questions or Triss’ answers. “Hullo in there,” she said, knocking the steel toe of her boot against the bars of the cell. A man’s face appeared, deep lined, yellow-eyed, and sharp-nosed.

“You’re School of Raven, aren’t you?” Kolgrim said without wasted any time on hello how do you dos. Which frankly was a relief.

“What gave it away?” Tissaia asked.

“They send you out too soon, little snot-nosed brats. No respect for your elders. What do you want?”

“Just passing the time, how about you?” she snarked back.

Kolgrim laughed. “What do you want, bird?”

“The baronet is untrustworthy,” she told him. “He’s taking his inadequacies on anyone who looks more man than him. Which might be an advantage for you. I’m not sure anyone would mistake you for a threat to their masculinity.”

Kolgrim laughed so hard his face disappeared for a moment. When it appeared again the lines of tension had eased. “I’ve missed you harridans. Met one of your lot before, you know Lina? Sounded like a griffin giving birth. She could flail the skin off an alderman with that voice of hers.”

He must have seen a falter in Tissaia’s expression, his face sobered for a moment. “I suppose you’re not just here for a social call though, and me just getting out the fine china. What will I do with all these tea sandwiches?”

“Big talk for a man in a hole,” she told him.

“It’s quite cozy once you get used to it, the baronet’s going to get bored of waiting for a decent torturer. And then we can get on with the trial already. They set some man on me with a knife, I think I hurt his feelings laughing at him,” Kolgrim smirked.

“I suppose since they have you in that hole you’d like us to fetch that sword diagram for you?” Tissaia spoke quickly, looking over her nails. They were tidy as always. “We’ve talked to his son, Lord Florian – you’re welcome. He’ll try to make sure you get Trial of Ordeal. You’re going to want the Trail.”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know,” he answered. “You’ll be wanting that wyvern contract for trade? I need that wyvern for my ordeal.”

“They won’t assign you the wyvern,” Milslav stepped in. “There’s a wraith in the crypt. The baronet has been wanting to get rid of it for ages.”

“We’ll take the wyvern then,” Tissaia said. “And we’ll have the diagram waiting for you at the crypt.”

“Fine,” Kolgrim said, rolling his eyes. “Off you go then. You stay around here any longer and you'll be noticed by this incompetent lot. I’m not sharing a cell with you women.”

The two of them shook on it and suddenly Tissaia felt better about the whole situation.


	7. The World Sinks Like A Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ran out of chapters and into a bit of burnout. Sorry this chapter is late, it was a bit of a struggle to make my way through. The next few chapters might be a bit late, but the story isn't officially on hiatus.

Aphra was strikingly beautiful, her body was graceful on the wing. She swooped through the air in powerful arches with the sunlight making her wings sparkle and glow like a rainbow opal. She turned in an arch like a lady dancing to land next to Jaskier on the grass looking over Filavandrel’s lute. Filavandrel plucked over the strings while Jaskier’s fingers pressed the keys into the neck. He knew he was teaching them both bad habits and simply didn’t care.

Golden bright as buttercups Jaskier’s eyes smiled at him. His cheeks were like rosy apples, round and rounding out his eyes into happy moon shapes. The inside of the barn smelled of hay and mice and baby goats. Sunlight filtered in in beams to dash white gold over the piles of hay. If it were up to Filavandrel they would live in this moment of fingertips on lute strings and sunlight and the smell of hay and the gold of Jaskier’s smiling eyes. Sometimes Jaskier got blurry, he shifted away from the range of feeling for Filavandrel. This is how he wanted the two of them to be. The left and the right foot placed in tandem, the left and the right arm measuring out the world around them by touch. Two parts of the same creature. Left eye, right eye; left lung, right lung.

“Are the two of you ready to go?” Zola asked, eying them both. It didn’t quite feel like the right question. They had all talked over whether or not they should go and had decided on the honorable path, which also happened to be the path where Zola would use Jaskier’s particular gifts to help find the missing boy. If the boy had fallen off a cliff and died Filavandrel wasn’t sure what they would do.

“It’s the honorable thing,” Filavandrel told her. “It still doesn’t feel like a good idea.”

“We’re witchers,” she said, bending down to ruffle Jaskier’s hair. “There is very little we do that’s a good idea.”

“How are we going to convince the boy’s mother to go with us without informing the father,” he asked. “That is very suspicious.”

Zola looked like she was thinking the same thing. “By crossing our fingers and hoping for good luck. If that doesn’t work then probably by generous application of sympathy and honesty. Sometimes the best thing you can do as a witcher is just wing it.”

“They’re humans,” he said. The word felt awkward in his mouth, a concession he wasn’t sure how he felt about making. “They won’t take responsibility for their negligence. Not when there’s someone different they can blame.”

“You’re probably right,” Zola allowed. “But if we work off the assumption of bad faith then we might as well just give up on everything. Give up on the honor of rescuing an innocent man, never mind wherever this Vitty boy is huddling in the woods somewhere. Stop pouting, come on.”

Was Filavandrel willing to give up on the honorable thing? If the honorable thing meant they might get murdered. If it meant keeping Jaskier safe then… then he wasn’t sure. Sometimes distasteful things were necessary.

Zola helped them up onto Clip and led them out of the tiny settlement toward the outskirts of White Orchard. The trees had an odd green smell to them, something sharp and almost astringent with an edge of sweetness to it. He buried his face in Jaskier’s hair until the scent was less overwhelming, he didn’t know how Zola could stand it. It had to be murder on Jaskier’s sense of smell as well, but he didn’t so much as flinch. 

The fruit trees were old, bejeweled by shiny amber and thick around the trunk. Songbirds slashed the line of their wings against the blue of the sky in restlessness, circling in gyre toward nothing. Jaskier curved his body in the saddle to watch the big green grasshoppers and the rustles through the grass and the wind in the flowers. Filavandrel held him in place and kept his gaze sweeping over the trees, the sky, Zola’s face in calm repose. There was a plumpness in her face, her cheeks were soft and her face round even as he could see the way her body was turning sturdy and lean. Her hands didn’t look childish at all, they were articulate, flexible. They were like his brother’s hands.

There was a little cottage up ahead a woman kept going in and out of; she stood at the door looking around and then went back in again, she came out again with her broom in her hands and then went back in without sweeping. Leaning back against Filavandrel, Jaskier squeezed Filavandrel’s hands around his waist and then pointed.

“Yeah,” Filavandrel said.

As they approached the woman dropped her broom and dashed toward them. Jaskier’s hand over Filavandrel’s squeezed tighter. The woman had an awkward face, her skin overly pink, and her features slightly too small. Her dark hair had been tied up with a ribbon in a lopsided knot at the back of her head. She stopped next to their horse on the other side of them as Zola. “Oh,” she said. “Oh. I thought- I thought that.”

Filvandrel tightened his arms around Jaskier, pulling him closer.

“We were traveling through the area and heard your son was missing,” Zola said.

The dh’oine woman kept looking back and forth between Filavandrel and Jaskier and it was making him anxious. She clenched her apron into her fists. “Y-yes,” she said. “My son Vitty. He didn’t come home.”

“Witchers are by necessity skilled trackers. Would you like our help searching for them?” Zola asked.

At first, Filavandrel wondered why Zola didn’t just come out and say they were here to find Vitty, but the vague question seemed to have relaxed the woman a bit.

“What do you get out of it?” the dh’oine woman asked.

“Is that the way things are here?” Zola tilted her head at the woman. She sounded so strong, so certain, like Tissaia. “No one helps each other unless they can get something out of it?” 

“Isn’t that the way things are everywhere?” the dh’oine woman asked.

“No,” Zola said.

For a moment she didn’t seem to know what to say to that. “My-” the dh’oine woman began. “My husband would never agree to this. He’s good to me. I can’t go against him.”

“Is he so good to you that you’ll let your son starve to death in the woods? Is he so good to you you’ll let your son be torn apart by wolves so he can prove to the village he was right?” Zola asked.

Filavandrel had never seen a woman so young and so old all at once. The dh’oine woman stared with wide, wide eyes and pale, pale cheeks and leaked out little shiny tears.

“We’re all women here,” Zola said before gesturing to Filavandrel and Jaskier. “Except for these two boys who are boys. But they’re so sensible they might as well be women.”

Jaskier clasped Zola’s hand and pressed his cheek to the back of it.

Zola moved Clop forward a step so she could reach her free hand toward the dh’oine woman. “Men speak of pride, don’t they? They’re so concerned with pride and honor, but it’s their pride and honor isn’t it? Your husband’s pride and honor that he’s so kind to share with you.”

The woman’s hands tightened into pale burls in her apron.

“Did your husband carry your son so long in his belly that he can say what must be done or not done in trying to find him?”

“No,” the dh’oine woman whispered. “No, he didn’t.”

Nodding toward the cottage, Zola gave her a reassuring smile. “Jaskier has the best nose. He’ll need to smell something of your son’s.”

“I- I have his winter coat!” the woman said and turned to run in such a rush she almost fell.

Zola pinned him with a weighted stare. “Be kind to her. I know you don’t like humans, but she’s grieving. She’s probably never been farther afield than the edge of the orchard.”

“So I’m supposed to forgive her because she doesn’t know any better?” Filavandrel hissed out. Clip and Clop had been very well trained, they walked in slow tandem with each other up to the cottage following the pace Zola set for them.

“Your feelings are justified, they just don’t have a place here and now. You can hate people on your own time. When you’re on the job give yourself the space to see someone worth saving. Worth being kind to.” Zola’s voice had a rhythm when she spoke like this, a meter like a low drumbeat he could almost feel in the back of his head. “You are powerful in a way you weren’t before. You deserve a chance to feel what that means. Be kind.”

Her arms flexed under the edge of her rolled-up sleeve as she smoothly dismounted and then helped them off the horse one at a time. “Jaskier.”

The little witcher looked up at her, holding onto her hand with one of his own.

“Do you understand you need to help this lady find her son?” she asked.

He smiled up at her.

“He understands,” Filavandrel told her.

Jaskier’s brow furrowed, turning his head away from the intense smell to the coat being pressed almost to his mouth and nose by the dh’oine woman. Filavandrel took the coat into his own hands, looking into Jaskier’s face. As soon as Jaskier had his attention, his buttercup eyes pulled up into a smile. “We’re looking for Vitty. We want you to find him.”

With careful fingers, Jaskier examined the coat: the wooden toggles, the hems, the stitching. When he was satisfied, he bobbed his head closer sniffing delicately. He wandered over to the bed, sniffing at the mattress and then wriggled underneath it.

“What is he doing?” Lorna said, her voice with that high thread of panic in it.

“He’s investigating,” Filavandrel said.

Jaskier appeared out from under the other side of the bed holding a lumpy fabric… shape in one hand. It was almost the shape of a ball or perhaps an oddly shaped egg. There were an approximation of eyes sewn onto the narrower side of it and to strips of fabric sewn to the top of it.

“Sir Bun,” Lorna sighed, holding her hand out for it. “I thought it was lost. Vitty cried and cried when- When he lost him.”

Jaskier handed the lump to Lorna and then took her free hand in his.

Filavandrel stepped forward, “He wants you to follow him.”

Jaskier walked in a careful pattern, crouching down and standing and walking and running. Jaskier was very smart - he could make a song about anything - but he was also distractible. It was difficult to tell when he was trying to catch the scent, or had seen a grasshopper that was particularly big, or that he was waiting for them to catch up. The woman was slow and Zola had to keep making herself shorten her steps as well as call Jaskier to stop. They entered the woods. It wasn’t a surprise to anyone. 

Perhaps Zola considered it part of his training, but she left Filavandrel to walk next to the woman. She was anxious, half stumbling as she went but she didn’t ask for them to slow down.

“How,” she asked and then stopped in a pattern he was starting to interpret as meaning she expected to be interrupted. “How long have you been a witcher? Fighting, I- I mean fighting monsters and things?” she asked.

Filavandrel tried to think a moment about dh’oine words. “A witcher doesn’t need to fight monsters to be a witcher anymore than a human has to farm to be human. It’s just what we’re good at.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice.

“My family was murdered by monsters and I needed somewhere to go." It felt good to say it. A little like pettiness and a little like cleaning a wound. “Zola took us in. She takes care of us.”

“But!” She paused for a moment. “But I’ve only ever heard of witchers fighting monsters.”

“A witcher is awaiting torture and execution for traveling through a town that happened to have a child missing at the same time. Why would you ever see anyone other than monster hunters?” he told her.

“Oh,” she said again.

“Boyo,” Zola said to him, her mouth pressed into a sort of disapproval. “You come up here and keep an eye on Jaskier and I’ll walk with our guest.”

“It’s alright,” the woman said, no pause in her voice this time. “I won’t hurt him.”

Zola looked back and forth between them with a gaze that meant he was going to get talked to later.

He sighed and the sound surprised a laugh out of the dh’oine woman. She was still clutching that odd stuffed thing in one of her hands.

The woods here weren’t as dense as the woods where Filavandrel’s people had once lived, but they had their own charm as a mixture of old oaks and misplaced fruit trees. He wondered what this place had been in the old days. If it was like him, once something beautiful, magical and then something changed.

Once Filavandrel had been a prince. He had trailed after his brother who was strong and tall and wise as older brothers were meant to be. Athelinuin was the future, Athelinuin was perfect. Even when Ilariel had smoothed back Athelinuin’s hair with careful fingers and told him to rest, Filavandrel’s brother had smiled his soft tired smile and sat and played his lute while Filavandrel watched and listened until he fell asleep. Their father had loved them, of course, he did, but he was always busy with refugees and meetings and trying to stop them from starving. Athelinuin was the one who spent the most time with Filavandrel. He was the one who walked him to his tutor and walked with him through the flowers pointing out the different birds.

He missed when things were simple, when a nightmare could be banished by the sound of a lute and the murmur of the wind through the trees.

They stopped after a few hours for the dh’oine woman to rest. The path Jaskier leads them on is meandering. It takes them past places he can understand being of interest to a boy. They go past a cluster of rabbit burrows, a wild apple tree with cores at the root, past a fallen log that even the dh’oine woman recognized someone had been playing under.

Up ahead Jaskier came to a stop so suddenly the young witcher was poised on his toes, a bird frozen a moment before flight. That buttercup stare turned toward Filavandrel as though to bore into his soul.

“We’re getting close,” Filavandrel said.

“How can you tell?” the dh’oine woman asked.

Jaskier crouch walked to a tree, heavy boughs reaching out in a broad canopy. He climbed the tree at a speed that the lady witchers had learned to temper. There was something just a bit too fast about him, about the slope of his spine – movement a little too reminiscent of a four-legged scramble. Zola walked up slowly, her paced measured. 

The dh’oine woman reached out, almost grabbing Filavandrel by the jerkin. “If he up there?”

A bloody coat fluttered down from the tree.

The woman made a shrill inhaled scream, more air than sound.

Jaskier dropped from the tree with a roll and in that moment he looked like a witcher. The forward curve of his back, the crouch of his body, the sharp sweep of his eyes. Jaskier stood again and was suddenly soft. 

Zola picked up the coat and offered it to the woman. “Was this his?”

“Yes,” the woman said, reaching for it with both hands. “Yes. That’s his. I made it for him.”

“Well, he’s not up in the tree,” Zola told her. “That’s a good sign. There aren’t really any creatures that would have carried him up there.” Filavandrel heard between the words that anything that might have carried the boy up to the higher he climbed up of his own volition. It’s just a matter of where he ended up next.”

Jaskier held up a plucked-up flower, a pale poppy with a few drops of blood on it, and pointed onward.

“What’s that way?” Zola asked.

The woman was just staring at the coat in her hands. Zola walked up to her and put her hands on the woman’s shoulder. The sound the woman made was high and repetitive. 

Dropping one hand, Zola made a gesture at her side. _”Dorna, listen to me.”_

The woman’s head snapped up toward her.

“Breathe Dorna, calm yourself. We have a direction to go in. What’s in that direction?”

“Just-” the woman sniffled. “Just the river.”

“Okay,” Zola said. “The river. Let’s go to the river then.”

“He’s my only son,” the woman said in a small voice.

Zola smiled and squeezed the woman’s shoulder. “Then we better find him.”

The walk the rest of the way to the river was tense and awkward. The dh’oine woman stumbled her way through the woods, the only thing keeping her from running into a tree was Filavandrel redirecting her path with a hand on her sleeve. He was concentrating so much on keeping her from falling into a hole that the two of them almost fell into the river.

Zola had her sword out, her other hand raised as though to make a sign.

Jaskier was crouched by her side trying to catch the scent again. There was definitely a smell from the river, a foul one a bit like rotten fish but intensified by his new nose. He wasn’t entirely sure how he had missed it other than being overwhelmed by annoyance.

“What is it?” he asked.

Zola pointed with her sword, there were shapes under the water, an ugly blue-gray face.

Tissaia had drilled him on this. Drowners were stupid but sly. Weak toward igni, attacked in numbers. Zola shifted her sword back and forth in front of herself with a long smooth motion. “Filavandrel, please escort Dorna far enough away she won’t be hurt.”

“Come on,” Filavandrel said, pulling on the woman’s sleeve again to draw her back from the bank. The last thing they needed was her falling in.

The area around the river was more of a marsh than he was expecting. There must have been an incomplete tributary of the river that softened the ground without being able to cut a proper creek. They weren’t sinking but water pressed up out of the ground around his feet. By the river, Zola moved with a brute strength that stunned. She cut a drowner nearly in half with a single swing and then with a lunge bisected the creature entirely. It was beautiful to watch.

He felt a slash of alarm in his chest like an echo down a canyon, a sensation he felt from another source. It burned like a dagger between his ribs and turned his head toward Jaskier. Jaskier stared at him with eyes so wide the whites of them flashed like lightning. Filavandrel took a step toward Jaskier and then another and then hands closed around his ankles as big as a man’s hand but clawed at the tips. He could hear Tissaia’s voice in his head as Jaskier sprinted toward him. _Get out the old air, suck in the new air._ It was fast, not more that a three count. Jaskier reached for him and Aphra was screaming and with a yank Filavandrel was underwater.


End file.
